by Joël Dicker
“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 photo of the black Monte Carlo, which could be 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 eleven o’clock. 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, 8:00 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 . . . 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 to 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 five o’clock,” 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 a
bout 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 the latter is really true, 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. Then he noticed something. His expression changed instantly.
“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:
NIXON RESIGNS
“Richard Nixon resigned in August 1974!” Gahalowood said. “This photograph could not have been taken in August 1975.”
“So who put that date on the back of the photo?”
“I don’t know. But this means Robert Quinn’s lying to us. He didn’t kill anyone!”
Gahalowood ran out of the cafeteria and down the main staircase. I followed him through the building’s hallways until we reached the detention cells. He asked to see Robert Quinn immediately.
“Who are you protecting?” Gahalowood yelled when he saw Quinn behind the bars of his cell. “You didn’t test drive a black Monte Carlo in August 1975! You’re protecting someone, and I want to know who! Your wife? Your daughter?”
Robert’s face was a mask of despair. Without moving from the small padded bench, he muttered: “Jenny. I’m protecting Jenny.”
“Jenny?” Gahalowood repeated incredulously. “Your daughter was the one who . . .”
He took out his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” I asked him.
“Travis Dawn. I don’t want him to tell his wife. If she knows her father has confessed, she’ll panic and make a run for it.”
Travis did not answer his phone. Gahalowood contacted the Somerset police station so they could get him on the car radio.
“This is Sergeant Gahalowood, New Hampshire State Police,” he said. “I need to talk to Chief Dawn right away.”
“Chief Dawn? Call him on his cell phone. He’s not on duty today.”
“What? I called him earlier, and he told me he was investigating a car accident.”
“That’s impossible, Sergeant. I’m telling you—he’s not on duty today.”
Gahalowood hung up, a look of shock on his face, and immediately sent out a general alert.
Travis and Jenny Dawn were arrested a few hours later at Boston’s Logan Airport, where they were about to catch a flight to Caracas.
It was late at night when Gahalowood and I left the headquarters in Concord. A pack of reporters was waiting by the building’s entrance, and they swarmed around us as we walked out. We cut a path through them without making a single comment and dived into Gahalowood’s car. He drove in silence.
“Where are we going, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do cops usually do at times like this?”
“They drink. What about writers?”
“They drink.”
So he drove us to his favorite bar on the outskirts of Concord. We sat at the bar and ordered double whiskeys. On the television screen behind us, the headline scrolled in a loop across the news ticker:
SOMERSET POLICE OFFICER CONFESSES TO MURDER OF NOLA KELLERGAN
1
THE TRUTH ABOUT THE HARRY QUEBERT AFFAIR
“THE LAST CHAPTER OF a book, Marcus, should always be the best.”
New York City, Thursday, December 18, 2008
One Month After the Discovery of the Truth
It was the last time I saw him.
It was 9 p.m., and I was at home listening to my minidiscs when the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and we looked at each other for a long time in silence. Finally he said: “Good evening, Marcus.”
After a second’s hesitation I replied: “I thought you were dead.”
He nodded. “I’m just a ghost now.”
“Do you want some coffee?”
“I’d love some. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Come in, Harry.”
I went into the kitchen, and he waited in the living room, playing nervously with the framed photographs on my bookshelves. When I came back with the coffeepot and cups, he was looking at one of him and me, from my graduation day at Burrows.
“This is the first time I’ve been to your place,” he said.
“The spare bedroom is ready for you. It has been for several weeks.”
“You knew I’d come?”
“Yes.”
“You know me well, Marcus.”
“Friends know each other.”
He smiled sadly.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Marcus, but I won’t stay.”
“So why did you come?”
“To say good-bye.”
I tried not to let my distress show, and filled the cups.
“I won’t have any friends at all if you leave me,” I said.
“Don’t say that. You were more than a friend. I loved you like a son.”
“And I loved you like a father.”
“In spite of the truth?”
“The truth does not change how you feel about someone. That’s the great tragedy of love.”
“You’re right,” Harry said. “So you know everything, huh?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“I worked it out in the end.”
“You were the only one who could have found me out.”
“So that was what you were talking about, in the motel parking lot. When you said that nothing would ever be the same between us. You knew I would discover the truth.”
“Yes.”
“How could you, Harry?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I have the video recordings of Travis and Jenny Dawn’s and Robert Quinn’s interrogations. Do you want to see them?”
“Yes, please.”
He sat on the couch. I inserted a DVD into the machine and pressed Play. Jenny appeared on the screen. She was looking straight into the camera, in a room at the New Hampshire State Police headquarters. She was crying.
Extract from the Interrogation of Jenny Q. Dawn
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: Mrs. Dawn, how long have you known?
Jenny Q. Dawn (sobbing): I . . . I never suspected a thing. Never! Not until the day Nola’s body was found at Goose Cove. The whole town was in a frenzy. Clark’s was full of people: customers, journalists asking questions. It was hell. I started feeling sick, so I went home earlier than usual. There was a car I didn’t recognize in our driveway. I went inside the house, and I could hear voices. I realized it was Chief Pratt, and that he was arguing with Travis
. They didn’t hear me.
June 12, 2008
“Calm down, Travis!” Pratt thundered. “No one will suspect—just wait and see.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Quebert’s going to get blamed for it. The body’s on his property! Everyone’s accusing him already.”
“And what if he’s found not guilty?”
“He won’t be. We can’t ever talk about this again—do you understand?”
Jenny heard footsteps and hid in the living room. She saw Chief Pratt leave the house. When she heard his car engine, she rushed into the kitchen, where she found her husband, a horrified expression on his face.
“What’s going on, Travis? What are you hiding from me? Tell me the truth about Nola!”
Jenny Q. Dawn: That was when Travis told me. He showed me the necklace. He said he’d kept it so he would never forget what he’d done. I took it and said I was going to take care of everything. I wanted to protect my husband, our marriage. I was always alone, Sergeant. I don’t have any kids. Travis is the only thing I have. I didn’t want to risk losing him. I was hopeful that the investigation would be over quickly and that Harry would be accused. But then Marcus Goldman started stirring up the past because he was sure Harry was innocent. He was right, but I couldn’t let him do it. I couldn’t let him discover the truth. So I decided to send him those messages. I set fire to that damn Corvette. But he ignored my warnings. So I decided to set fire to the house.
Extract from the Interrogation of Robert Quinn
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: Why did you do that?
Robert Quinn: For my daughter. She looked so worried after Nola’s body was discovered and everyone in town was talking about it. Her behavior was odd, and she seemed preoccupied. She would leave Clark’s for no reason. The day Goldman’s notes were published in the newspapers, she went into a rage. It was almost frightening. Then when I was coming out of the employees’ bathroom, I saw her sneaking out the back door. I decided to follow her.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
She parked on the forest path and quickly got out of the car, carrying a gas can and a can of spray paint. She was wearing gardening gloves so as not to leave fingerprints. He followed her cautiously, from a long way behind. By the time he got through the trees, she had already left a message on the Range Rover, and he could see her pouring gasoline on the porch.