The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  “This is Chief Pratt, Somerset Police. Urgent request for backup at Side Creek Lane at the Shore Road intersection. We have a woman dead from a bullet wound and probably a missing kid.”

  “Chief Pratt, we already received a distress call from a Mrs Deborah Cooper, of Side Creek Lane, at 7.33, informing us that a young girl had taken refuge at her house. Are the two cases connected?”

  “What? Deborah Cooper is the dead woman. And there’s no-one left in the house. Send all available units! There’s some nasty shit going down here!”

  “Units are on their way, Chief. I’ll send you more backup.”

  Even before the conversation was over, Pratt heard a siren—the backup was already there. He had barely had time to inform Travis of the situation, and in particular to tell him to search the house again, when the radio crackled to life: There was a chase on Shore Road, a few hundred yards from there, between a sheriff’s car and a suspicious vehicle that had been spotted by the edge of the forest. The deputy sheriff, Paul Summond, the first of the reinforcements to reach Somerset, had seen a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo, license plates unreadable, coming out of the woods and speeding away in defiance of his orders. It was headed north.

  Chief Pratt jumped into his car and went to help Summond. He took a forest road that ran parallel to Shore Road, hoping to cut in front of the fugitive farther up. He burst onto the highway three miles beyond Side Creek Lane, just failing to intercept the black Chevrolet.

  The cars were going at crazy speeds. The Chevrolet was following Shore Road northward. Chief Pratt sent a radio call to all available units to form roadblocks, and asked for a helicopter to be sent. Soon the Chevrolet, changing direction suddenly, turned onto a minor road, and then onto another. It was going very fast; the police vehicles were struggling to keep up. Pratt yelled into his car radio that they were losing the suspect.

  The pursuit continued on narrow roads. The driver seemed to know exactly where he was going, and was gradually able to leave the police behind. Coming to an intersection, the Chevrolet just avoided crashing into a vehicle coming the other way, which stopped dead in the middle of the road. Pratt was able to get around the obstacle by driving over the grass, but Summond, just behind him, couldn’t avoid colliding with the car. Fortunately nobody was seriously hurt. Pratt, now the only one with the Chevrolet in his sights, guided the backup as best he could. He lost visual contact with the car for a moment but spotted it again on the Montburry road before being left behind for good. He realized the suspect’s vehicle had escaped them when he saw patrol cars coming toward him from the opposite direction. He immediately ordered more roadblocks on every road, a general search of the area, and the intervention of the state police. Back at Side Creek Lane, Travis Dawn was unequivocal: There was not the slightest trace of the girl in the red dress—not in the house or on the property surrounding it.

  8 p.m.

  In a panic, the Reverend David Kellergan called 911 and reported that his daughter, Nola, was nowhere to be found. A county sheriff’s deputy, sent as backup, was the first to arrive at 245 Terrace Avenue, closely followed by Travis Dawn. At 8.15, Chief Pratt arrived. The conversation between Deborah Cooper and the police station operator left them in no doubt: Nola Kellergan was the girl who had been seen on Side Creek Lane.

  At 8.25, Chief Pratt issued a new general alert confirming the disappearance of Nola Kellergan, fifteen years old, seen for the last time one hour earlier on Side Creek Lane. He ordered a missing-person appeal to be broadcast, stating that the police were searching for a young white girl, five foot two, one hundred pounds, long blond hair, green eyes, wearing a red dress and a gold necklace with the name NOLA engraved on it.

  Police reinforcements came from all over the county. While an initial search of the forest and the beach was conducted in the hope of finding Nola Kellergan before nightfall, patrol cars roamed the area in search of the black Chevrolet, all traces of which had, for the moment, disappeared.

  9 p.m.

  State police units arrived at Side Creek Lane, commanded by Captain Neil Rodik. Forensics teams were also sent to Deborah Cooper’s house and into the forest, where the traces of blood had been found. Powerful halogen lamps were used to illuminate the area; they found clumps of blond hair, broken fragments of teeth, and scraps of red fabric.

  Rodik and Pratt, observing from a distance, took stock of the situation.

  “Looks pretty violent,” Pratt said.

  Rodik nodded, then asked: “You think she’s still in the forest?”

  “Either she disappeared in that car or she’s in the forest. We’ve already carried out a thorough search of the beach.”

  “I am asking myself,” Rodik said, “has she been taken far away from here? Or is she lying hidden in the woods?”

  Pratt sighed. “All I want is to find this girl alive, as quickly as possible.”

  “I know, Chief. But with all the blood she’s lost, if she is still alive somewhere in the woods, she is going to be in a terrible state. You wonder how she found the strength to get as far as that house. Pure desperation, I guess.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “No news on the car?” Rodik said.

  “Nothing. It’s a real mystery. And there are roadblocks everywhere, in every possible direction.”

  When police discovered traces of blood leading from Deborah Cooper’s house to the place near the woods where the black Chevrolet had been, Rodik’s expression was resigned.

  “I don’t want to be a prophet of doom,” he said, “but either she crawled somewhere to die or she ended up in the trunk of that car.”

  At 9.45, with the sun no more than a halo above the horizon, Rodik asked Pratt to call off the search for the night.

  “You can’t be serious,” Pratt protested. “What if she’s around here somewhere, still alive, waiting for help? Come on, we can’t abandon her now! If she’s in the forest, we’ll find her, even if it takes all night.”

  Rodik was an experienced officer. He knew that local police were sometimes naive, and part of his job was to persuade them to face reality when the situation demanded.

  “Chief Pratt, you have to call off the search. These woods are huge, and it’s too dark to see. Searching at night is pointless. The best-case scenario is that you’ll use up your resources, and you’ll have to start all over again tomorrow. The worst-case scenario is that you might lose cops, and then you’d have to search for them too. You already have enough to worry about.”

  “But we have to find her!”

  “Chief, trust my experience: Spending the night outside is a useless exercise. If the girl’s alive, even if she’s injured, we’ll find her tomorrow.”

  *

  The people of Somerset were beside themselves. Hundreds of gawkers surrounded the Kellergans’ house, held back by lines of police. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. When Chief Pratt returned there, he had no choice but to confirm the rumors: Deborah Cooper was dead, and Nola had vanished. People cried out in fear; mothers took their children home and barricaded them inside, while fathers took out their old rifles and organized themselves into citizen militias to watch over the area. Chief Pratt’s task became more complicated: He had to prevent the town from succumbing to panic. To reassure people, patrol cars roamed the streets while state police officers went door to door collecting witness statements from the Kellergans’ neighbors.

  11 p.m.

  In the staff room of the Somerset police station, Chief Pratt and Captain Rodik reviewed the situation. There had been no evidence of a break-in or a struggle in Nola’s bedroom. Nothing but the wide open window.

  “Did the girl take anything with her?” Rodik asked.

  “No. No clothes, no money. Her piggy bank hasn’t been touched: There’s a hundred and twenty dollars inside.”

  “Sounds like she was abducted.”

  “And none of the neighbors noticed anything.”

  “I’m not surprised. Someone must have persuaded the gi
rl to go with him.”

  “Through the window?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe not. It’s August—everyone keeps their windows open. Maybe she just went out for a walk and encountered the wrong person.”

  “Apparently one witness, Gregory Stark, says he heard raised voices at the Kellergan house while he was out walking his dog. That was around 5 p.m., but he’s not sure about it.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not sure?” Rodik demanded.

  “He says there was music blaring out from the Kellergans’. Very loud music.”

  “We’ve got nothing,” Rodik grumbled. “Not a clue, not a trace. It’s like a ghost came in and took her. All we have is a brief sighting of the girl covered in blood and screaming for help.”

  “What do you think we should do now?” Pratt asked.

  “You’ve done everything you can for tonight, believe me. We need to think about tomorrow. Send everyone home to get some rest, but keep the roadblocks up. Prepare a search plan for the forest. We need to start again at dawn. You’re the only one who can lead that search: You know the forest by heart. You should also send an alert to all police forces. Provide every detail about Nola: that piece of jewelry she was wearing and the dress. Physical details will make her stand out and allow witnesses to identify her. I’ll pass on that information to the F.B.I., to neighboring state police forces, and to the border police. I’m going to ask for a helicopter for tomorrow and reinforcements with dogs. Try to get some sleep if you can. And pray. I like my job, Chief, but when children get abducted … it’s more than I can bear.”

  Police cars came and went, and people gathered and gawked at the house on Terrace Avenue. Some wanted to go into the woods. Others turned up at the police station, offering to take part in the search. Panic took hold of the town.

  Sunday, August 31, 1975

  A cool rain fell hard all over the region, as a thick mist moved in from the ocean. At 5 a.m., close to Mrs Cooper’s house, Chief Pratt and Captain Rodik stood under a hastily constructed tent and gave orders to the first groups of police and volunteers. On a map, the forest had been divided into sectors, each one assigned to a different team. Reinforcements of search-and-rescue teams and forest rangers were expected later that morning, enabling the search to be extended and exhausted team members to be replaced. The request for a helicopter had been canceled for now, due to poor visibility.

  At 7 a.m., in Room 8 of the Sea Side Motel, Harry woke up with a start. He had slept in his clothes. The radio was still on, and a newsflash was being broadcast: “General alert in the Somerset region after the disappearance of a teenage girl. Nola Kellergan, aged fifteen, vanished last night, around 7 p.m. Police are seeking anyone with information. At the time of her disappearance, Nola Kellergan was wearing a red dress …”

  Nola! They had fallen asleep and forgotten to leave. He leaped out of bed and called her name. For a fraction of a second, he really believed she was in the room with him. Then he remembered that she had not showed up at the motel. Why had she abandoned him? The radio mentioned her disappearance, so she must have left home as they had planned. But why would she leave without him? Had something gone wrong? Had she gone to seek refuge at Goose Cove? Their elopement was turning into a disaster.

  Still not aware of how serious the situation was, he threw away the flowers and left the room in a hurry, his hair uncombed and his tie untied. He threw his bags in the trunk of the car and sped back toward Goose Cove. After barely two miles, he came upon a major police roadblock.

  Chief Gareth Pratt had come to check on things. He was carrying a shotgun. Everyone was on edge. He recognized Harry’s car in the line of vehicles and went over to see him.

  “Chief, I just heard about Nola on the radio,” Harry said, his window lowered. “What’s going on?”

  “Nobody knows. Nola disappeared from home. She was seen near Side Creek Lane last night, and since then there hasn’t been a trace of her. We’ve secured the whole area and we’re searching the woods.”

  Harry thought his heart was going to stop beating. Side Creek Lane was on the way to the motel. Had something happened to her on the way to their meeting? Had she feared, once she had been seen on Side Creek Lane, that the police would go to the motel and find them there together? So where was she hiding?

  The chief noticed the horrified expression on Harry’s face and the backseat of his car filled with luggage.

  “Are you coming back from somewhere?” he said.

  Harry decided he ought to stick to the cover story he had agreed on with Nola.

  “I was in Boston. For my book.”

  “Boston?” Pratt said, surprised. “But you’re coming from the north …”

  “I … I know,” Harry stammered. “I had to go to Concord before coming home.”

  The chief looked at him suspiciously. Harry was driving a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo. Pratt told him to turn off his engine.

  “Is there a problem?” Harry said.

  “We’re searching for a car like yours that may be involved in this case.

  “A Monte Carlo?”

  “Yes.”

  Two officers searched the car and the luggage. They found nothing suspicious, and Chief Pratt allowed Harry to move on. As Harry was leaving, the chief said to him: “I would ask you not to leave the area. Just a precaution, of course.” The car radio kept repeating Nola’s description. “A young white girl, five foot two, one hundred pounds, long blond hair, green eyes, wearing a red dress and a gold necklace with the name NOLA engraved on it.”

  *

  She was not at Goose Cove: not inside the house, on the deck, or on the beach. She was nowhere to be found. He called her name. He didn’t care if anyone heard him. He paced up and down the beach, out of his mind. He searched the house for a letter, a note. But there was nothing. He began to panic. Why had she left home, if not to meet him?

  No longer knowing what to do, he went to Clark’s. That was where he learned that Mrs Cooper had seen Nola covered in blood before being found dead herself. He could not believe it. Why had he allowed her to walk to the motel on her own? He should have gone to meet her in Somerset. He walked across town until he reached the Kellergans’ house, which was surrounded by police cars, and listened to people’s conversations in an attempt to understand. When he got back to Goose Cove later that morning, he sat on the deck with a pair of binoculars and bread for the seagulls. And waited. She had got lost. She would come back. He surveyed the beach through the binoculars. He kept on waiting. Until nightfall.

  13

  The Storm

  “The danger of books, Marcus, is that sometimes you lose control of them. When you are published, the thing that you have written in such solitary fashion suddenly escapes from your hands and enters the public realm. This is a moment of great danger; you must keep control of the situation at all times. It is disastrous to lose control of your own book.”

  EXTRACTS FROM THE MAJOR EAST COAST NEWSPAPERS July 10, 2008

  From the New York Times

  MARCUS GOLDMAN PREPARES TO LIFT THE VEIL ON THE HARRY QUEBERT CASE

  The rumor that writer Marcus Goldman was preparing a book on Harry Quebert has been widespread for a few days among publishing circles in New York City. Now it has been confirmed by actual pages from the work in question, which were sent to major national newspapers last night. The book recounts Mr Goldman’s own methodical investigation into the events that led to the murder of fifteen-year-old Nola Kellergan, who disappeared on August 30, 1975, in Somerset, New Hampshire, and whose body was found buried on the property of Harry Quebert near Somerset on June 12, 2008.

  The rights to Mr Goldman’s book were acquired for $2 million by the New York publishing house Schmid & Hanson. The firm’s C.E.O., Roy Barnaski, who refused to comment, nevertheless revealed that the book is to be published this fall under the title The Harry Quebert Affair. […]

  From the Concord Herald

  THE REVELATIONS OF MARCUS GOLDMAN

  [�
��] Goldman, a close friend of Harry Quebert’s, who was his professor at Burrows College, describes recent events in Somerset from the inside. His account begins with discovery of the relationship between Quebert and the young Nola Kellergan, aged fifteen at the time.

  “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.”

  From the Washington Post

  MARCUS GOLDMAN’S BOMBSHELL

  […] As his investigation proceeds, Goldman seems to go from discovery to discovery. He notes in particular that Nola Kellergan was repeatedly beaten. Her friendship and closeness with Harry Quebert gave her a stability she had never known before, allowing her to dream of a better life. […]

  From the Boston Globe

  THE SCANDALOUS LIFE OF YOUNG NOLA KELLERGAN

  Marcus Goldman uncovers evidence that, until now, was unknown to the press.

  She was a sex object for E.S., a powerful businessman from Concord, who sent his chauffeur to fetch her as if she were fresh meat. Half-woman, half-child, at the mercies of the fantasies of the men of Somerset, she also became the prey of the local police chief, who forced her to perform fellatio on him—that same police chief whose responsibility it would be to lead the search for her after she disappeared. […]

  And that is how I lost control of a book that did not even exist yet.

  In the early hours of the morning on Thursday, July 10, I discovered the sensational headlines in the press. Snippets of what I had written were spread over the front pages of all the national newspapers, but with the sentences abridged and taken out of context. My theories had become despicable assertions; my suppositions, proven facts; my reflections, vile value judgments. My work had been dismembered, my ideas pillaged, my thoughts violated. Goldman, a writer in remission struggling to find his way back from the terror of the blank page, had been killed.