by Joël Dicker
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 cell 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 goodbye.”
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 the interrogations. Do you want to see them?”
“Yes, please.”
He sat on the couch. I inserted a D.V.D. 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 all 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 publishe
d 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 was pouring gasoline on the porch.
“Jenny! Stop!” her father yelled.
She hurriedly lit a match and threw it to the ground. The front door went up in flames. She was surprised by the intensity of the flames and had to walk back about ten feet, with her hands over her face. Her father grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Jenny! This is crazy!”
“You don’t understand, Dad! What are you doing here? Go away, go away!”
He took the gas can from her hands.
“Run!” he ordered her. “Run before they catch you!”
She disappeared into the forest and got back in her car. He had to get rid of the gas can, but he was panicking and couldn’t think straight. In the end he ran down to the beach and hid it in the bushes.
Extract from the Interrogation of Jenny Q. Dawn
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: And after that?
Jenny Q. Dawn: I begged my father not to get involved in all this. I didn’t want him to get in trouble.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: But he already was. So what did you do?
Jenny Q. Dawn: The pressure was mounting on Chief Pratt after he’d confessed to forcing Nola to go down on him. He’d been so confident before, but now he was close to cracking. He would have told them everything. We had to get rid of him. And get hold of the gun.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: He’d kept the gun, damn it.
Jenny Q. Dawn: Yes. It was his service pistol. He was never without it.
Extract from the interrogation of Travis S. Dawn
Travis S. Dawn: I will never forgive myself for what I did, Sergeant.
It’s haunted me now for thirty-three years.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: What I don’t understand is that you’re a cop, and yet you kept that necklace, which was a damning piece of evidence.
Travis S. Dawn: I couldn’t get rid of it. That necklace was my punishment. It reminded me of the past. Ever since August 30, 1975, not a day has passed that I haven’t shut myself away somewhere to look at that necklace. And anyway, it seemed so unlikely that anyone would ever find it.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: Tell me about Pratt.
Travis S. Dawn: He was going to talk. He’d been terrified ever since you found out about him and Nola. He phoned me one day: He wanted to see me. We met on a beach. He said he was going to tell all, that he was going to make a deal with the D.A. and that I should do the same because the truth would come out in the end. That night I went to see him at his motel. I tried to reason with him. But he wasn’t having it. He showed me his old Colt .38, which he kept in a drawer in his nightstand. He said he was going to give it to you the next day. He was going to talk, Sergeant. So I waited for him to turn his back on me and I hit him with my nightstick. I picked up the Colt and got the hell out of there.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: A nightstick? The same as for Nola.
Travis S. Dawn: Yes.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: The same one?
Travis S. Dawn: Yes.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: Where is it?
Travis S. Dawn: It’s my service club. That’s what Pratt and I decided back then: He said the best way of hiding the murder weapons was to leave them in clear view of everyone. The Colt and the nightstick that we wore on our belts as we searched for Nola were the murder weapons.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: So why did you get rid of it in the end?
And how did Robert Quinn end up in possession of the Colt and the necklace?
Travis S. Dawn: Jenny pressured me into it, and I gave in. She hadn’t been able to sleep since Pratt’s death. She was at her wits’ end. She said we shouldn’t keep them at home, that if the investi-gation into Pratt’s murder turned to us, we were screwed. I wanted to throw them in the middle of the ocean, where no one would ever find them. But Jenny panicked, and she made the first move without consulting me. She asked her father to take care of it.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: Why her father?
Travis S. Dawn: I don’t think she trusted me. I hadn’t managed to get rid of the necklace in thirty-three years, so she was afraid I wouldn’t go through with it. She’s always had absolute faith in her father. She thought he was the only person who could help her. And of course, no-one would suspect him—kind old Robert Quinn.
November 10, 2008
Jenny burst into her parents’ house. She knew her father would be alone.
“Dad!” she cried. “Dad, I need your help!”
“Jenny? What’s the matter?”
“No questions. I need you to get rid of this.”
She handed him a plastic bag.
“What is it?”
“Don’t ask. Don’t open it. This is serious. You’re the only one who can help me. I need you to throw this someplace where no-one will ever look for it.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Alright, I’ll do it, darling. Don’t worry. I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
“Whatever you do, don’t open that bag, Dad. Just get rid of it.”
But as soon as his daughter had left, Robert opened the bag. Shocked by what he saw, and fearing that his daughter was guilty of murder, he decided that as soon as night fell he would throw the bag’s contents into Montburry Lake.
Extract from the Interrogation of Travis S. Dawn
Travis S. Dawn: When I learned that my father-in-law had been arrested, I knew the game was up. I knew I had to do something. I decided I had to let him take the blame. At least for a while. I knew he would want to protect his daughter, that he would give us a day or two: enough time for us to reach a country with no extradition treaty. I went in search of evidence I could use against Robert. I looked through Jenny’s family albums, hoping I could find a photograph of Robert and Nola so I could write something compromising on the back. But then I found that picture of him and the black Monte Carlo. I couldn’t believe my luck! I wrote the date, August 1975, in ballpoint pen, and when the time was right, I gave it to you.
Sergeant P. Gahalowood: Chief Dawn, it’s time to tell us what really happened on August 30, 1975 …
*
“Turn it off, Marcus!” Harry shouted. “I’m begging you, turn it off. I can’t bear to hear that.”
I pressed the power button on the remote and the screen went black. Harry was crying. He got up from the couch and stood by the window. Outside, large snowflakes were falling. The city, all lit up, was beautiful.
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
“New York’s an amazing place,” he whispered. “I often wonder what my life would have been like if I’d stayed here instead of going to Somerset.”
“You would never have found love,” I said.
He stared out into the night. “How did you work it out, Marcus?”
“Work what out? That you didn’t write The Origin of Evil? It was just after Travis Dawn was arrested. The press was all over the case again, and a day or two later I received a call from Elijah Stern. He said he desperately needed to see me.”
Friday, November 14, 2008
Elijah Stern’s estate, near Concord, New Hampshire
Elijah Stern received me in his office.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Goldman.”
“I was surprised by your call, Mr Stern. I thought you didn’t like me very much.”
“You’re a talented young man. Is it true what they say in the papers, about Travis Dawn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s so awful …”
I nodded, then said, “I was wrong all along about Caleb. I regret that.”
“But if I understand correctly, it was your tenacity that finally enabled the police to solve the case. That policeman keeps praising you to the skies. Gahalowood is his name, isn’t it?”
“I asked my publisher to withdraw The Harry Quebert Affair from sale.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Are you going to write a corrected version?”
“Probably. I don’t know what it will be like yet, but justice will be done. I fought to clear Quebert’s name, and I will fight to clear Caleb’s too.”
He smiled.
“Actually, Mr Goldman, that’s why I asked you here. I have to tell you the truth. And perhaps you will understand why I don’t blame you for having thought Luther was guilty these past few months: I myself spent thirty-three years convinced that Luther had killed Nola Kellergan.”
“Never a doubt?”
“I was always sure of it. One hundred per cent.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything to the police?”
“I didn’t want to kill Luther a second time.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Mr Stern.”
“Luther was obsessed with Nola. He spent his time in Somerset, watching her.”
“I know. I know you found him at Goose Cove. You told Sergeant Gahalowood about it.”
“But I think you underestimate the scale of Luther’s obsession. That August, in 1975, he spent his days at Goose Cove, hidden in the woods, spying on Harry and Nola as they walked on the beach or sat on the deck, wherever they went. Everywhere! He was going completely crazy. He knew everything about them. Everything! He told me about it all the time. Day after day he would describe what they had done, what they had said. He told me their whole story: how they met on the beach, that they were working on a book, that they had been away together for a week. He knew it all. Gradually I understood that he was living a love affair through them. The love he could not experience himself, because of his repulsive physical appearance, he experienced vicariously. So much so that I hardly ever saw him at all most days. I ended up having to drive myself to all my meetings!”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr Stern, but there’s something I don’t understand: Why didn’t you just fire him? I mean, it seems insane to me. It’s as if you were obeying your own employee, the way you let him paint Nola or the way you let him spend all his time in Somerset. I realize this is a personal question, but what was there between the two of you? Were you—”
