by Joël Dicker
*
Thirty-three years after this scene, haunted by remorse and as if seeking atonement, Stern had led Gahalowood to the terrace of his house.
“So that’s how Nola entered my life,” he said. “The day after her arrival, I attempted to contact Quebert to tell him he could stay at Goose Cove, but it was impossible to get hold of him. For a week I couldn’t find him. I even sent Luther to wait around outside the house. He finally caught up with him as he was on his way out of town.”
Gahalowood had then asked: “But didn’t Nola’s request seem strange to you? This was a fifteen-year-old girl having a relationship with a man in his thirties, and coming to you to ask a favor on his behalf.”
“She spoke so well about love, Sergeant. I could never have phrased it like that. And I loved men; do you know how homosexuality was regarded back then? Even now, in fact … the proof being that I still hide my sexuality. Even when Marcus Goldman wrote that I was an old sadist and implied that I had abused Nola, I didn’t dare respond with the truth. Instead I sent my lawyers to deal with it: I filed a lawsuit, hoping to block publication of the book. All I had to do was tell America that I belonged to the other side. But our fellow citizens are still very prudish, and I have a reputation to protect.”
Gahalowood brought the conversation back to his main concern.
“Your arrangement with Nola—how did it work?”
“Luther went to get her in Somerset. I told him I did not want to know anything about all of that. I insisted he take his own car, rather than mine. As soon as I saw him leave for Somerset, I sent the staff out. I didn’t want anyone to be there. I was too ashamed. So much so that I didn’t want it to happen on the veranda that Luther generally used as a studio; I was afraid someone would see them there. So he took Nola to a small room next to my office. I greeted her when she arrived and said goodbye when she left. That was a condition I had imposed on Luther: I wanted to make sure everything went well. Or not badly, at least. The first time, I remember, she was on a couch that was draped with a white sheet. She was already naked, trembling, uncomfortable, frightened. I shook her hand, and it was ice cold. I never stayed in the room, but I always remained close, so I could be certain he wasn’t hurting her in any way. In fact I even hid an intercom in the room. I would put it on before she arrived, that way, I could hear what was happening.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Luther didn’t say a word. He generally didn’t speak much, because of his injuries. He painted her—that’s all.”
“So he didn’t touch her?”
“Never! I’m telling you, I would not have allowed it.”
“How many times did Nola come here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe about ten.”
“And how many pictures did he paint?”
“Only one.”
“The one we took?”
“Yes.”
So it was purely because of Nola that Harry had been able to stay in Somerset. But why exactly had Luther Caleb felt the need to paint her? And why had Stern—who, according to his own testimony, had been ready to let Harry stay in the house for free—given in to Caleb’s request and forced Nola to pose nude? Gahalowood had not received any responses to these questions.
“I asked him,” he told me. “I said to him, ‘Mr Stern, there’s one thing I still don’t understand: Why did Luther want to paint Nola? You said earlier that this was how he got his kicks. Do you mean that painting provided him with a form of sexual pleasure?’ But he said the subject was closed. It was a complicated story, he said, and I knew everything I needed to know; the rest belonged to the past. And he terminated the interview. I was there unofficially, so I couldn’t force him to respond.”
“Jenny told us that Luther wanted to paint her too,” I reminded Gahalowood.
“So what are we talking about? Some kind of psycho with a paintbrush?”
“I have no idea. Do you think Stern might have agreed to Caleb’s request because he was attracted to him?”
“That did cross my mind, and I asked Stern if there had been anything between him and Caleb. He replied very calmly that there had been nothing at all. ‘I have been the faithful partner of Mr Sylford since the early seventies,’ he told me. ‘All I ever felt for Luther Caleb was pity, which is why I hired him in the first place. He had been seriously disfigured after a brutal beating. A life senselessly ruined. He was a skilled mechanic, and I needed someone to take care of my fleet of cars and be my chauffeur. We quickly built a bond of friendship. He was a nice guy, you know. I’m happy to say that we were friends.’ But what nags at me, writer, is that bond he mentioned. He said it was a bond of friendship, but I have a feeling there was more to it than that. And I don’t mean that it was sexual. I’m sure Stern was telling the truth when he said he felt no attraction for Caleb. No, I think the bond must have been more … unhealthy. That’s the impression I had when Stern described how he gave in to Caleb’s request and asked Nola to pose nude. That made him uncomfortable and ashamed, and yet he did it anyway, as if Caleb had some sort of power over him. Sylford must have sensed it too. Up to that point in the story, he had not said a word, he’d just listened, but when Stern told how he would greet Nola before the painting sessions, and how terrified she looked, lying there naked, he said: ‘But, Eli, how could you? What is this all about? Why did you never tell me?’”
“What about Luther’s disappearance?” I asked. “Did you talk to Stern about that?”
“Patience, writer. I saved the best part for last. Sylford, without meaning to, put Stern under pressure. He was upset, and he lost his lawyerly instincts. He started bellowing: ‘For God’s sake, Eli, explain yourself! Why did you never tell me? Why did you stay silent all these years?’ Stern, as you can imagine, was rather abashed, and he replied: ‘I stayed silent, yes, but I never forgot. I kept that painting for thirty-three years. Every day I would go into the studio, sit on the couch, and look at it. I had to withstand her gaze, her presence. And she would stare at me with those ghost eyes. That was my punishment!’”
Gahalowood, of course, asked Stern what punishment he was referring to.
“My punishment for having killed her a little bit!” Stern cried. “I think that by letting Luther paint her naked, I awoke some terrifying demons in him … I … I had told that young girl she had to pose nude for Luther, and I created a sort of bond between the two of them. I think I may be indirectly responsible for the death of that sweet girl!”
“What happened, Mr Stern?”
At first Stern remained silent. He paced around, visibly unsure whether he should tell what he knew. Then he made up his mind to talk.
“I quickly realized that Luther was in love with Nola, and that he wanted to understand why Nola was in love with Harry. That sickened him. And he became completely obsessed by Quebert, to the point that he would hide in the woods around Goose Cove to spy on him. I noticed that he was going to Somerset much more often than before, and I knew he would sometimes spend whole days there. I felt I was losing control of the situation, so one day I followed him. I found his car parked in the woods near Goose Cove. I left mine farther away, where no-one would see it, and I searched the woods. That was how I came to see him, without his seeing me. He was concealed in the undergrowth, spying on the house. I didn’t show myself to him, but I wanted to teach him a lesson, to make him feel as if he’d just dodged a bullet. So I decided to go to Goose Cove, as if I were paying an impromptu visit to Harry. I walked down the driveway as if nothing were up. I went straight to the deck, making plenty of noise. ‘Hello! Hello, Harry!’ I shouted, to make sure that Luther would hear me. Harry must have thought I was crazy. I remember he started shouting his head off too. I let him believe I had left my car in Somerset and asked him for a ride into town in return for my buying him lunch. He agreed, and off we went together. I thought that would give Luther time to get away, and that he would think he’d had a close call. Harry and I went to Clark’s. There Harry told me that a cou
ple of days before, at dawn, Luther had given him a ride from Somerset to Goose Cove after he had cramped up while running. Harry asked me what Luther was doing in Somerset at that time of day. I changed the subject, but I was very worried: This had to stop. That evening I ordered Luther to stay away from Somerset, and told him he would be in trouble if he kept going. But he continued, in spite of everything. So a couple of weeks later I told him I didn’t want him to paint Nola anymore. We had a terrible argument. This was Friday, August 29. He told me he could no longer work for me, and he left, slamming the door behind him. I thought he was just saying that in the heat of the moment, and that he would return. The next day, the fateful August 30, I left early for some private meetings. But when I got back, at the end of the day, and saw that Luther still hadn’t returned, I had a strange foreboding. I went to search for him. I took the road to Somerset; it must have been about 8 p.m. I was passed on the way by a line of police cars. When I arrived in Somerset, I found the town in turmoil. People were saying that Nola had disappeared. I asked someone for the Kellergans’ address, although in fact all I had to do was follow the crowds of onlookers and the emergency vehicles that were headed there. I stayed in front of their house for a while, surrounded by gossiping neighbors, incredulously contemplating the place where that sweet girl lived, that peaceful little white wooden house, with a swing hanging from the branch of an old cherry tree in the yard. I went back to Concord at nightfall and checked Luther’s room to see if he was there. But of course he wasn’t. The painting of Nola was, though, and it was finished. I took it with me and hung it in the studio. I never moved it from there. I stayed up all night waiting for Luther, but he never came. The next day his father telephoned me. He was searching for him too. I told him his son had left two days before, but I gave no further details. In fact I didn’t tell anyone. I kept silent. Because to accept that Luther was guilty of kidnapping Nola Kellergan would mean accepting that I was a little guilty myself. I spent a month searching for Luther; I looked for him every day. Until his father called to tell me that he had died in a car accident.”
“Are you telling me you think Luther Caleb killed Nola?” Gahalowood demanded.
Stern nodded. “Yes. I have thought that for thirty-three years.”
*
This information left me speechless. I went to fetch us two more beers from the minibar and plugged in my recorder.
“You have to repeat all of that, Sergeant,” I told him. “I have to record you, for my book.”
He accepted with good grace. “If you like, writer.”
I turned on the recorder. It was then that Gahalowood’s cell phone rang. He answered, and I have his words on tape: “Are you sure?” he said. “You’ve checked everything? This is completely nuts!” He asked me for a pen and a piece of paper; he wrote down the information and hung up. Then he looked at me strangely and said: “That was an intern at the police station … I’d asked him to find me Luther Caleb’s accident report.”
“And?”
“According to the report, Luther Caleb was found in a black Chevrolet Monte Carlo registered to Stern’s company.”
Friday, September 26, 1975
It was a misty day. The sun had risen a few hours earlier, but the light was still gray and the landscape clouded by opaque smears. It was 8 a.m. when George Trent, a lobsterman, left the harbor of Plymouth, Massachusetts, by boat, accompanied by his son. His fishing zone was concentrated largely along the coast, but he was one of the few lobstermen to also leave traps in certain inlets neglected by others, since they were generally considered difficult to access or too dependent on the whims of the tide to be profitable. It was to one of these inlets that George Trent was headed that day, to pick up two traps. As he maneuvered his boat toward Ellisville Harbor, his son was suddenly distracted by aflash of light. A ray of sunlight had escaped through a gap in the clouds and reflected off something. This had lasted only a fraction of a second, but it had been so bright that the young man was intrigued. So he got out a pair of binoculars and scanned the coastline.
“What’s up?” his father asked.
“There’s something over there on the shore. I don’t know what it is, but I saw something shining.”
Gauging the level of the ocean in relation to the rocks, Trent decided that the water was deep enough to approach the shore. He moved the boat very slowly through the shallows.
“Tell me again what you saw,” he said to his son.
“A reflection, definitely. But it must have been reflected off something unusual, like metal or glass.”
They moved farther forward, and, on the rocks in front of them, they suddenly saw what it was that had grabbed their attention. “Jesus Christ!” said George Trent, wide-eyed. He rushed to the onboard radio to call the Coast Guard.
*
At 8.47 a.m., the Sagamore police were informed by the Coast Guard that a car had gone off the road that hugs the hills overlooking Ellisville Harbor and crashed onto the rocks below. Officer Darren Wanslow went to take a look. He knew the place well: a narrow road perched above steep sand dunes, offering a spectacular view. A small parking area had even been built on the end point to allow tourists to admire the vista. It was a beautiful place, but Officer Wanslow had always thought it dangerous because there was no guard rail. He had asked the county authorities to erect one on several occasions, but without success, in spite of the heavy traffic here on summer evenings. All they had put up was a warning notice.
As he neared the parking area, Wanslow saw a forest ranger’s pickup truck, so he knew this must be where the accident had occurred. He turned off the car’s siren and parked. Two rangers were looking out at the scene below: A Coast Guard boat was busy near the rocks, using an articulated arm.
“They say there’s a car down there,” one of the rangers told Wanslow. “But you can’t see shit.”
The policeman approached the edge. The slope was steep and covered in brambles, tall grass, and folds of rock. The ranger was right: It was impossible to make anything out.
“You think the car is just below?” he asked.
“That’s what they said on the emergency channel. Given where the Coast Guard’s boat is, I’d say the car was parked and then, for whatever reason, hurtled down the slope. I hope it wasn’t teenagers coming to make out at night who forgot to put the hand brake on.”
“Jesus, yeah,” Wanslow whispered. “It’d be terrible if there were kids down there.”
He inspected the part of the parking area closest to the dunes. There was a long grassy strip between where the asphalt ended and the slope began. He searched for signs of the car’s path: weeds and brambles that might have been torn out as the vehicle hurtled down the slope.
“You think the car went straight over?” Wanslow asked the forest ranger.
“Probably. How long have we been saying that we need guard rails here? It’s kids, I’m telling you. They probably drank one beer too many and drove straight over. Because if you haven’t had too much to drink, you’d need a damn good reason not to stop after reaching the end of the parking area.”
Down below, the boat performed a maneuver and moved away from the shore. The three men were then able to see a car swinging on the end of the articulated arm. Wanslow returned to his car and radioed the Coast Guard.
“What kind of car is it?” he asked.
“It’s a Chevrolet Monte Carlo,” came the answer. “Black.”
“A black Monte Carlo? Can you confirm that it’s a black Monte Carlo?”
“Affirmative. New Hampshire registration. There’s a stiff inside. Doesn’t look too good.”
*
We had been driving for nearly two hours in Gahalowood’s police car, a dusty Chrysler.
“You want me to drive, Sergeant?”
“Certainly not.”
“You drive too slowly.”
“I drive carefully.”
“Your car is a trash can, Sergeant.”
“It’s a state police
vehicle. Kindly show some respect.”
“Alright, then it’s a state trash can. How about we put some music on?”
“Forget it, writer. We’re conducting an investigation—we’re not on a day trip.”
“I’ll put it in my book, you know—that you drive like an old lady.”
“Put some music on, writer. And turn up the volume. I don’t want to hear you again until we’re there.”
I laughed.
“So remind me who this guy is,” I said. “Darren …”
“Wanslow. He was a police officer in Sagamore. He was the one called to the scene when the lobstermen found Luther’s car.”
“This is crazy! Why didn’t anyone make the connection?”
“No idea. That’s what we need to find out.”
“What is this Wanslow guy doing now?”
“He retired from the force a few years ago. He runs a garage now, with his cousin. Are you recording this?”
“Yes. What did you say to Wanslow on the phone yesterday?”
“Not much. He seemed surprised by my call. He said we’d find him in his garage during the day.”
“Why didn’t you just question him over the phone?”
“Nothing beats a face-to-face meeting, writer. The telephone is too impersonal. It’s for pussies like you.”
The garage was located on the way into Sagamore. Wanslow, when we found him, had his head under the hood of an old Buick. Inviting us inside, he kicked his cousin out of the office, cleared piles of binders full of accounts off the chairs so we could sit, spent a long time washing his hands at the sink, then poured us some coffee.
“So what brings New Hampshire State Police down here?” he asked.
“As I told you yesterday, we’re investigating the death of Nola Kellergan,” Gahalowood replied. “And in particular a car accident that happened here on September 26, 1975.”
“The black Monte Carlo, huh?”
“Exactly. How did you know that’s what we’re interested in?”
“You’re investigating the Kellergan case. I thought there must have been a link to it back then.”
