The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  So we went to Alabama.

  Upon arriving at the airport in Mobile, we were met by a young state trooper, Philip Thomas, whom Gahalowood had contacted a few days earlier. He was standing in the arrivals lounge, ramrod straight in his uniform, eyes shaded by his cap. He greeted Gahalowood with deference, then, seeing me, he lifted his cap slightly.

  “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” he asked me. “On television?”

  “Maybe,” I replied.

  “I’ll help you out,” Gahalowood said. “It’s his book that’s at center of all this fuss. Watch out for him. My life was perfectly calm and peaceful until I met him.”

  At Gahalowood’s request, Officer Thomas had prepared a slim file on the Kellergans, which we looked through in a restaurant close to the airport.

  “David J. Kellergan was born in Montgomery in 1923,” Thomas recited. “He studied theology before becoming a minister and moving to Jackson to take over at the Mount Pleasant parish. He married Louisa Bonneville in 1955. They lived in a quiet neighborhood in the northern part of town. In 1960 Louisa Kellergan gave birth to a daughter, Nola. There’s nothing more to say. They were just a peaceful, God-fearing Alabama family. Until the tragedy, in 1969.”

  “What tragedy?” asked Gahalowood.

  “There was a fire. One night the house burned down, and Louisa Kellergan died.”

  Thomas’s file included newspaper clippings from the time.

  FATAL FIRE ON LOWER STREET

  A woman died last night in a house fire on Lower Street. Firefighters say a lighted candle may have caused the tragedy. The house was completely destroyed. The deceased was the wife of a local pastor.

  An extract from the police report indicated that on the night of August 30, 1969, around one in the morning, while David Kellergan was at the bedside of a dying parishioner, Louisa and Nola slept as the house burned. Coming back to the house, the pastor noticed smoke pouring from it and rushed inside. The second floor was already on fire. Nevertheless he managed to reach his daughter’s room; he found her in bed, half-conscious. He carried her out to the yard, then wanted to go back inside to find his wife, but by then the fire had reached the staircase. Neighbors rushed over, alerted by screaming, but they were powerless to intervene. When the firefighters arrived, the whole second floor was ablaze: Flames burst through the windows and consumed the roof. Louisa Kellergan was found dead, asphyxiated. The police report concluded that a lighted candle had probably set fire to the curtains, before the fire spread quickly through the rest of the house. Mr Kellergan stated that his wife often lit a scented candle on her chest of drawers before going to bed.

  “The date!” I gasped as I read the report. “Look at the date of the fire, Sergeant!”

  “My God. August 30, 1969.”

  “The officer in charge of the investigation had his doubts about the father for a long time,” Thomas said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I talked to him. His name is Edward Emerson. He’s retired now. He spends his days working on his boat, in front of his house.”

  “Could we arrange to see him?” Gahalowood asked.

  “I’ve already done that. He’s expecting us at 3 p.m.”

  *

  The retired detective Edward Emerson stood in front of his house, calmly sanding the hull of a wooden dinghy. The sky was threatening rain, so he raised his garage door so we could stand under it. He invited us to dig into the pack of beers that lay on the ground, and talked to us without interrupting his work, although he made it clear that we had his full attention. He told us about the fire, repeating what we had learned from reading the police report, without adding many more details.

  “It was strange, that fire,” he said in conclusion.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “We thought for a long time that David Kellergan started the fire intentionally to kill his wife. There’s no evidence for his version of events: As if by a miracle, he arrives in time to save his daughter but just too late to save his wife. It was tempting to conclude that he started the fire himself. Particularly when he cleared out of town a few weeks later. The house burns down, his wife dies, and he disappears. There was something fishy about it, but we had no evidence against him at all.”

  “It’s the same scenario with the disappearance of his daughter,” Gahalowood observed. “In 1975 Nola disappeared. She was probably murdered, but there was no evidence to prove it irrefutably.”

  “What are you thinking, Sergeant?” I asked. “You think David Kellergan could have killed his wife and then his daughter? You think we got the wrong man?”

  “If that’s true, it will be a disaster,” Gahalowood replied. “Who could we question here, Detective?”

  “It’s difficult to say. You could pay a visit to Mount Pleasant Church. They might have a register of parishioners; some of them will have known David Kellergan. But thirty-nine years after the event … It’s going to be time-consuming to find them.”

  “We don’t have any time,” Gahalowood said bleakly.

  “I know David Kellergan was quite close to some religious nuts who live on a commune an hour from here,” Emerson said. “That’s where he and his daughter stayed after the fire. I know that because I had to go there when I needed to talk to him for my investigation. He lived there until he left the state. Ask to speak to Pastor Lewis, if he’s still there. He’s their guru-type guy.”

  *

  The Pastor Lewis mentioned by Emerson was the leader of the Community of the New Church of the Savior. We went to see him the next morning. Officer Thomas came to fetch us from the local Holiday Inn, where we had taken two rooms—one paid for by the state of New Hampshire, the other by me—and took us to a vast property, most of which consisted of farmland. Having gotten lost on a road bordered by cornfields, we came across a guy on a tractor who led us to a group of houses and pointed out where the pastor lived.

  We were given a friendly welcome by an overweight woman. She left us in an office where, a few minutes later, Pastor Lewis joined us. I knew he had to be in his nineties, but he looked about twenty years younger than that. He seemed like a nice enough guy—very different from Emerson’s description.

  “Police?” he asked, shaking hands with each of us.

  “State police of New Hampshire and Alabama,” Gahalowood replied. “We’re investigating the death of Nola Kellergan.”

  “Seems like that’s all anyone talks about lately.”

  While he shook my hand, he stared at me for a moment and said, “Hang on, aren’t you …”

  “Yes, it’s him,” replied a clearly irritated Gahalowood.

  “So … what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  Gahalowood began the interrogation.

  “Pastor Lewis, unless I’m mistaken, you knew Nola Kellergan.”

  “Yes. Well, it was really her parents I knew. Lovely people. Very close to our community.”

  “What is ‘your community’?”

  “We’re Pentecostals, Sergeant. Nothing more than that. We have Christian ideals, and we share them. Yes, I know some people say we’re a sect. We’re visited by welfare services twice a year so they can check that our children are properly educated, well fed, and not mistreated. They also come to see if we have weapons or if we’re white supremacists. It’s becoming ridiculous. All our children go to the local high school; I have never held a rifle in my life; and I am actively involved in Barack Obama’s election campaign. So what would you like to know?”

  “What happened in 1969,” Gahalowood said.

  “Apollo 11 landed on the moon,” Lewis replied. “An important victory for America in its ongoing struggle with the Soviets.”

  “You know perfectly well what we’re talking about. The fire at the Kellergans’ house. What really happened? How did Louisa Kellergan die?”

  Although I had not spoken a single word, Lewis stared at me for a long time and then spoke directly to me.

  “I’ve seen you on T.V. a l
ot lately, Mr Goldman. I think you’re a good writer, but how did you mess up so badly about Louisa? I imagine that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Your book’s been discredited, and—let’s call a spade a spade—I imagine you’re shitting your pants. Am I right? What are you looking for here? Something to back up your lies?”

  “The truth,” I said.

  He smiled sadly.

  “The truth? But which one, Mr Goldman? God’s truth or man’s truth?”

  “Yours. What is your truth about the death of Louisa Kellergan? Did David Kellergan kill his wife?”

  Pastor Lewis got up from his chair and went to close the door to his office, which had been left ajar. He then stood by the window and looked outside. This scene immediately reminded me of our visit to Chief Pratt. Gahalowood indicated to me that he would take over the interrogation.

  “David was such a good man,” Lewis finally said with a sigh.

  “Was?” said Gahalowood.

  “I haven’t seen him in thirty-nine years.”

  “Did he beat his daughter?”

  “No! No, he was a man with a pure heart. A man of faith. When he arrived in Jackson, Mount Pleasant Church was always empty. Six months later it was full every Sunday morning. He could never have caused the slightest harm to his wife or to his daughter.”

  “So who were they?” Gahalowood asked gently. “Who were the Kellergans?”

  Pastor Lewis called his wife. He asked her to make tea with honey for everyone. He came back and sat in his chair, then looked at each of us in turn. His expression was tender and his voice warm.

  “Close your eyes, gentlemen,” he told us. “Close your eyes. It is 1953, and we are in Jackson, Alabama.”

  Jackson, Alabama, January 1953

  One day in early 1953, a young pastor from Montgomery entered rundown Mount Pleasant Church, in the center of Jackson. It was a stormy day. Rain was pouring from the sky, and a violent wind was uprooting trees. A newspaper vendor cowered beneath a store window’s canopy as his wares flew through the air; passersby ran for cover.

  The pastor pushed open the church door, which banged shut behind him. Inside, it was dark and extremely cold. He walked slowly up the aisle. Rain came in through holes in the roof, forming puddles on the floor. The place was deserted; there were no believers there, not the slightest sign of habitation. There were no altar candles, only a few wax stubs. He moved toward the altar. Then, seeing the pulpit, he placed his foot on the first step of the wooden staircase, ready to climb it.

  “Don’t do that!”

  The voice, bursting from the void, made him jump. He turned around and saw a short, plump man emerge from the darkness.

  “Don’t do that,” he repeated. “The stairs are worm-eaten. You could break your neck. Are you the Reverend David Kellergan?”

  “Yes,” replied Kellergan, feeling ill at ease.

  “Welcome to your new parish, Reverend. I’m Pastor Jeremy Lewis; I run the Community of the New Church of the Savior. I was asked to look after this congregation when your predecessor left. It’s all yours now.”

  The two men shook hands warmly. Kellergan shivered.

  “You must be freezing!” Lewis said. “Come with me—there’s a coffee shop on the corner.”

  That was how Jeremy Lewis first met David Kellergan. Sitting in the coffee shop, they waited for the storm to pass.

  “I’d heard that Mount Pleasant wasn’t doing well,” Kellergan said, somewhat disconcerted, “but I have to admit I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Yes. I won’t hide the fact that you’re about to take over a parish in a pitiful state. The parishioners no longer attend services or make donations. The building is in disrepair. There’s a lot of work to do. I hope you’re not discouraged.”

  “It would take a lot more than that to discourage me, Pastor Lewis.”

  Lewis smiled, already under the spell of his charismatic colleague.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “No, I’m still single.”

  *

  The new pastor spent six months visiting every household in the parish, introducing himself and persuading people to return to church on Sunday mornings. He raised funds for a new roof and, because he had not served in Korea, took part in the war effort by setting up a program to help veterans find jobs. Then some volunteers helped to refurbish the parish hall. Little by little, community spirit returned; Mount Pleasant Church regained its luster; and David Kellergan was soon considered a rising star in Jackson. Local bigwigs and members of the congregation saw a future for him in politics. A position in local government seemed his for the taking, and perhaps afterward a statewide one. Who knew—he might even be a senator.

  *

  One night in late 1953, David Kellergan went to eat dinner at a small restaurant close to the church. He sat at the counter, as he often did. Next to him a young woman he hadn’t noticed turned around and smiled as if she recognized him.

  “Hello, Reverend,” she said.

  He smiled back somewhat awkwardly.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but do we know each other?”

  She laughed, throwing back her blond hair.

  “I’m a member of your congregation. My name is Louisa. Louisa Bonneville.”

  Embarrassed at his failure to recognize her, he blushed, and she laughed even harder. He lit a cigarette in an effort to compose himself.

  “Could I have one?” she asked.

  He handed her the pack.

  “You won’t tell anyone I smoke, will you, Reverend?” Louisa said.

  He smiled. “I promise.”

  Louisa was the daughter of a prominent member of the congregation. She and David began dating. Everyone thought they made a wonderful couple. They were married in the summer of 1955. Both of them were so happy. They wanted lots of children, at least six—three boys and three girls, cheerful, laughing children who would bring life into the house on Lower Street, where the Kellergans had just moved. But Louisa was having trouble getting pregnant. She consulted several specialists, unsuccessfully at first. Finally, in the late summer of 1959, her doctor gave her the good news: She was going to have a baby.

  On April 12, 1960, Louisa Kellergan gave birth to her first and only child.

  “It’s a girl,” the doctor told David Kellergan, who had been pacing the hospital corridor.

  “A girl!” Kellergan exclaimed, his face beaming.

  He rushed to join his wife, who was holding the newborn in her arms. They hugged and looked at the baby, whose eyes were still closed. You could already see she would have blond hair like her mother.

  “What do you think of the name Nola?” Louisa asked her husband.

  The pastor thought this was a very pretty name.

  “Welcome, Nola,” he said to his daughter.

  *

  In the years that followed, the Kellergans were often held up as a model family: the goodness of the father, the sweetness of the mother and their beautiful little daughter. David Kellergan threw himself into his work. He was full of ideas and always enjoyed the support of his wife. On Sundays in summer they would regularly picnic at the Community of the New Church of the Savior; David Kellergan had been close friends with its pastor, Jeremy Lewis, since they first met on that stormy day almost ten years earlier.

  *

  “I’ve never met anyone who seemed happier than the Kellergans,” Pastor Lewis said. “David and Louisa were madly in love. It was incredible, as if the Lord Himself had made them just so they could love each other. And they were excellent parents. Nola was an extraordinary little girl, lively and gorgeous. It was the kind of family that made you want to have children and gave you undying hope in humanity. It was wonderful to see.”

  “But it all went wrong,” Gahalowood prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  There was a long silence. The pastor grimaced in discomfort. He got up and walked restlessly around the room.

  “Why do we have to talk about a
ll that?” he asked. “It was so long ago …”

  “Reverend Lewis, what happened in 1969?”

  The pastor turned toward a large cross on the wall and said: “We exorcized her. But it didn’t go as planned.”

  “What?” Gahalowood said, taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

  “The little girl … little Nola. We exorcized her. But it was a disaster. I think there was just too much evil in her.”

  “Please explain what you mean.”

  “The fire … the night of the fire. It’s true that David Kellergan went to see a dying parishioner and that when he got back at 1 a.m. he found the house in flames, but—I don’t know how to say this—things didn’t happen quite the way David Kellergan told the police.”

  August 30, 1969

  In a deep sleep, Jeremy Lewis did not hear the doorbell ring. His wife, Matilda, answered the door and then came to wake him. It was 4 a.m. “Jeremy, wake up!” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “Something terrible has happened. David Kellergan is here … There was a fire. Louisa is … she’s dead!”

  Lewis leaped out of bed. He found the pastor in the living room, weeping and wild-eyed with grief. His daughter was with him. Matilda escorted Nola to the spare bedroom so she could sleep.

  “My God! David, what happened?” Lewis asked.

  “There was a fire. The house burned down. Louisa is dead. She’s dead!”

  David Kellergan could no longer contain himself. Slumped in a chair, he let the tears roll down his cheeks. His whole body trembled. Jeremy Lewis gave him a large glass of whiskey.

  “And Nola? Is she alright?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank God. The doctors examined her. She escaped without a scratch.”

  Jeremy Lewis’s eyes welled up with tears.

  “My God … David, what a tragedy. What an awful tragedy!”

  He put his hands on his friend’s shoulders to comfort him.

  “I don’t understand what happened, Jeremy. I had gone to see a member of the congregation who was dying. When I got back, the house was on fire. The flames were enormous.”

  “Was it you who saved Nola?”

  “Jeremy … I have to tell you something.”