The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “I was talking to the police, as a matter of fact.” His eyes flicked among us, appraisingly. He was plainly deciding he might enjoy this game.

  “I have a few preliminary remarks to make,” he said. “They won’t take more than two or three minutes. And then you’re welcome to ask all the questions you like.” He paused. “This murder, as you can imagine, has been a profound shock to all of us here at Bransten.” The eyes dimmed with a genuine sorrow, but the voice was steady. “As some of you might know, Bransten College has been established for more than eighty years, and nothing like this has ever happened. Nothing even remotely like this.” He cleared his throat, and for a moment seemed sunk in reverie. Then his voice became crisper. “Roberta Grinnel came to Bransten College almost four years ago, and would have graduated this spring. She majored in fine arts, and was a good student with considerable talent, some of it as yet undeveloped.” He considered, and apparently decided not to elaborate the point. It was a near-flawless beginning, I thought, candid yet discreet. The main event, of course, lay ahead—the questions and the answers.

  “It is not the function of this college,” Johnson was saying, “to in any sense investigate the movements of Miss Grinnel as they pertain to the tragic events of last night. And, certainly, it isn’t my place to speculate on the implications of those events. However, I know you’ll be asking questions about Miss Grinnel and her movements yesterday. So, with the permission of the police, I’ll tell you what I can.”

  He glanced around and touched his small gray mustache. He seemed the storybook dean of students: a ruddy, healthy face, close-cropped gray hair and matching mustache, casual tweeds, a trim figure and a kindly, intelligent manner. He was, I suspected, a considerable person, probably with a quick sense of humor and a patient tolerance for human frailty.

  “First of all, yesterday,” he continued, “Miss Grinnel spent an average student’s day. She attended three classes in the morning, had lunch, and attended two classes in the afternoon, finishing at three P.M. She went to the library at about three-thirty and studied there until approximately five-thirty. She then returned to her room, bathed, and was ready for dinner at six P.M. After dinner, about seven, she went back to the library to finish up some research she was doing on a course in art history. At eight o’clock, she joined three other students in the student editorial offices, where they reviewed some work just completed on the student literary magazine, Forum. The work took perhaps a half hour, after which the four students apparently carried on a bull session until after ten. At about ten-thirty, Roberta Grinnel left the campus in her car.” He opened his hand in a small, controlled gesture of futile regret. “You know the rest. You probably know more about it than I do.” He looked at us, and then nodded slightly. “Now, if there’re any questions, I’ll be glad to try and answer them.”

  Campion was the first.

  “Will you please give us the names of the students present at the, ah, bull session in the editorial office?”

  The reply came readily and smoothly: “I’m sorry, but the police have asked us not to give out that information. However, I’m told that when their investigations are complete, the names will be given to you by the police.”

  “Have the police been the only ones investigating the, ah, bull session?” I asked. “Did you make your own investigation?”

  Johnson answered promptly—perhaps a little too promptly. “No, we’ve done nothing of that kind.”

  “Where are these three students now?” someone asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Are they here at the campus or downtown at police headquarters?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Do I understand,” Campion asked, phrasing his question with a precise, heavy emphasis, “do I understand that the police are ordering you neither to reveal the names nor the whereabouts of these three students?”

  Johnson thought about it, staring down at the table. Finally, looking up, he said soberly, “As I told you, Bransten has never had to cope with anything as terrible as this, and on such short notice. Our first move, when we heard the news, was to consult our lawyers and determine our legal responsibilities both to the institution and to our students. Our lawyers advised us that our first responsibility was to protect the students from any type of undue harassment or—” he glanced at us with quick apology—“or publicity, until such time as the students’ parents could take full responsibility in the matter, either by their own efforts and presence, or the efforts of their appointed representatives. That’s exactly what we’re trying to do. And, for that reason, I’m not going to give out these names until I have a clear authorization from the parents of the students involved.”

  “Was there any liquor present at this—‘bull session’?” I accented the last two words with deliberate insolence, then felt a brief pang of guilt for putting such a graceless question to such a gentle man.

  “I have no knowledge of any liquor,” he answered. His eyes were dead level. Poker player’s eyes.

  “Is liquor forbidden on campus?” someone asked.

  “Of course,” came the answer quickly.

  “How was it that the Grinnel girl could just drive off at ten-thirty at night?”

  Johnson seemed relieved at the question, for which he was obviously prepared.

  “Bransten College,” he said, “has always believed its students should have reasonable freedom. We expect our students to behave as responsible people, and that’s the way we treat them. We don’t have locks on our dormitory doors, and we don’t have monitors during our examinations. Our juniors and seniors live in private rooms, and they’re free to come and go as they like. Generally speaking, the system works—and works well. There are, of course, abuses. In every group of people, there are always a few who’ll act unwisely, no matter how many rules are made for their guidance.”

  His voice lowered to a more somber, more regretful note. “Now, all of you are acquainted with the conditions under which the body of Roberta Grinnel was discovered. Superficially, at least, it seems that Miss Grinnel was involved in a compromising situation at the time of her death. And, to be completely frank with you, we here at Bransten were aware of certain, ah, irregularities in her behavior, so that the situation in which she was found didn’t come as a complete surprise. However, we—” He hesitated, as if he’d momentarily lost the thought.

  “Then why wasn’t she expelled?” someone asked. “If she’d been expelled, she might not’ve been murdered.”

  As someone tittered at the question and Campion snorted outright, Johnson turned to regard the questioner, a bulldog type from a second-rate TV station.

  “That’s a matter of hindsight,” came the calm answer. “However, the fact is that Bransten College, while often being aware of unwise behavior on the part of its students, doesn’t feel that it has the power of censure, unless, of course, that behavior is a danger to the student or a nuisance to others. Now, you may disagree with that, sir. And, in that case, it’s your privilege not to send your children to our college.”

  The TV man reddened angrily. “Maybe her behavior was a danger to others, though. Suppose, for instance, she took a friend with her on her escapades—a girl? Wouldn’t you say that—that—?” He groped, then retreated to a belligerent platitude. “One bad apple spoils the barrel, you know.”

  Johnson was deft enough not to reply, and instead simply waited for another question.

  “Can you tell us, sir,” I asked, “whether or not the two Grinnel children, Roberta and Robert, saw much of each other during their time here at Bransten?”

  He thought about it before saying, “The boy, Robert, is a sophomore, so that we don’t, ah, know him as well as we did his sister. However, I think they saw each other in the normal course of student events. That is, I wouldn’t say that they went out of their way either to see each other or to avoid each other.” He smiled. “In other words, they behaved like most brothers and sisters I’ve observ
ed.”

  “How would you evaluate the Grinnel children?” I asked. “Would you say that they were happy, for instance? Well liked?”

  He seemed surprised at the question, and for a moment looked at me with eyes that seemed suddenly very shrewd and perceptive. “I wouldn’t characterize either child as happy, particularly,” he answered carefully. “But neither would I call them especially sad. Roberta was a rather withdrawn girl, and kept mostly to herself. She was a very beautiful girl, as you know, and she seemed to have plenty of dates. She didn’t seem to have many girl friends, possibly because she had an extremely self-sufficient air. And I think, at least superficially, she was very self-sufficient.”

  “And the boy?” I prompted.

  “He’s a much different type. Robert—he’s called Bobby—needs more approbation from his peer group, to quote from the textbooks. And, to be completely honest, I’d have to characterize Bobby as a considerably less stable individual than his sister. Much less.”

  “Have you been in contact with the girl’s family?” Campion asked.

  “Yes. I finally got through to Mr. Grinnel about ten o’clock this morning. He’s flying up to San Francisco this afternoon, as I understand it.”

  “Is Bobby Grinnel available for interviews?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. He’s in seclusion. He’ll be—”

  “I understand he’s out at the airport,” the belligerent TV man broke in. “I understand he’s meeting his father’s plane.”

  Johnson shrugged. “That may be. As I told you, our policy is governed by the police and by the parents involved. If those were Mr. Grinnel’s instructions concerning his son, then I’m sure they’re being carried out. I accompanied Bobby to the, ah—” He paused, for the first time at a loss. “To the, ah, apartment this morning, when he insisted on going. We both talked to the police for perhaps an hour, and then we came back here. Since then, Bobby’s been with his counselor. And,” he added, “with the college doctor, for observation and sedation. As you can imagine, he’s very upset by this tragedy.”

  “What’s your theory on the reason for this crime, Mr. Johnson?” It was a radio newsman asking the question.

  Sadly, the dean smiled. “I’m afraid I have no theory. I’m just very, very sorry it had to happen. I’m—” He shook his head and sighed, for the first time hinting at his age.

  Obviously, the questions were coming more slowly now. And, in fact, two radio men had already left. It was a little after three. The trip downtown would take perhaps thirty minutes, not including parking. I nudged Campion and tapped at my watch. He nodded, whispering that he just wanted to ask one more question. “How did Mr. Grinnel take the news of his daughter’s death, Mr. Johnson? Did you talk to him yourself?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I talked to Mr. Grinnel. He was—well, in control of himself, I’d say. Upset, naturally, but not devastated. He’s a man of powerful personality, as I expect you know.” Johnson looked around the table. No one had any questions. He placed his hands flat on the table, rising slowly to his feet.

  “I imagine you want to be on your way, gentlemen. I understand Captain Larsen will have a news conference soon, and I’m sure it’ll be much more informative than this.”

  He smiled and nodded as we hastily prepared to leave. I took the trouble to thank Mr. Johnson and shake his hand.

  6

  THE ATMOSPHERE OF LARSEN’S news conference was more compatible to the members of the press than Johnson’s. Smoke hung thick and blue in the stuffy lineup room, deep in the dampish recesses of downtown police headquarters. Reporters sat with their feet propped on the chairs in front of them, relaxed and quietly talking, or joking. I looked around the room, tabulating the faces and the media they represented. Everyone was there: the papers, radio, TV, the wire services and the national news magazines. Even Graphic Detective had sent someone. And, by this time, at least one additional reporter was present from each of the San Francisco dailies. Dan Kanter had a leg man. Campion had reluctantly taken a “color” man in tow, and I was saddled with a feature man with his own by-line. However, perhaps to underline our contempt for the human interest aspect of crime reporting, Campion, Kanter and I sat together, allowing our colleagues to shift for themselves.

  Kanter was pumping us for our impressions of Johnson’s news conference. “Do you think Johnson’s holding back something that might be real meat?” he asked.

  Campion shook his head. “I don’t think he knows anything to hold back. Obviously, he wants to know as little as possible about the whole thing. And he’s right. I think, really, the whole college would like to just sink out of sight and sound for a week or so.”

  “What’d you do all afternoon?” I asked.

  “All afternoon, hell,” Kanter grunted. “I had a deadline, and then we held a front page box until almost two o’clock. Then I came down here and spent the next two hours being pumped by the wire services, the news magazines, and that greasy character from Graphic Detective. I might just as well’ve stayed down at the paper. Besides, nobody’s talking, from detective on up. The only ones who’ll talk are the uniformed cops, and they’re pumping you.”

  “Is Grinnel in town yet?” Campion asked.

  “He’s due any time now, from what I hear,” Kanter said. “He’s coming in his private airplane. We’ve got a man at the airport, just to find out where he’s staying.”

  “Who do you think has been questioned so far?” I asked.

  Kanter shrugged. “As far as I know, just the ones you’d expect: Pastor’s neighbors, his landlady, his cleaning lady, and the people down at The Quiet Place. And, of course, Bobby Grinnel, the dean, and some students and teachers out at Bransten. Plus these three students you guys discovered, undoubtedly. Of course, that’s a pretty full day, so far. They’ve got every available detective on the case.”

  “I’m surprised,” Campion said, “that you couldn’t get one little old detective to a least make a guess for you. By this time, they’ve certainly got some idea which way it’s going. This isn’t a case of some mysterious butler knocking off the nephew who inherits the fortune; this was obviously an unpremeditated crime of passion, and a double murder at that. Now, how the hell can a guy walk into an apartment with two people in bed, knock them off, and get away clean? It just doesn’t—”

  “It could’ve been a loony, don’t forget that,” Kanter interrupted. “Jack the Ripper, with no motive but his own insanity. They’re the worst kind of all to find, especially if they’re cagey. They’re—”

  “But at least there’s a pattern to what those guys do, loony or not. And, as far as I can see, this murder doesn’t even faintly resemble anything we’ve ever had, let alone in the past year or so.”

  “Maybe this is a new Jack the Ripper,” I offered. “Maybe he’s just starting out in business.”

  Both men looked at me sourly. Then, just as they seemed to be framing suitably sardonic replies, Captain Larsen, Lieutenant Ramsey and Detective First Grade Carruthers strode out onto the lineup stage. Each man carried a straight-backed chair, like characters in an avant-garde play. Larsen blinked up into the lights and called backstage, “Kill those overheads.”

  The lights went down, and the three detectives took their seats. Larsen took a single sheet of paper from his pocket, scanned it, and leaned over to whisper briefly to Ramsey. Then, clearing his throat, Larsen addressed us.

  “I’ll give you the information on our investigation. Then I’ll take your questions.” He paused, again looked down at the paper, and again cleared his throat.

  “I’ll start with a brief factual rundown,” he said. “First, we know that Roberta Grinnel spent a comparatively average day at her classes yesterday, studying until about eight P.M. At that time she and three other students had a small, informal party in one of the student offices of the administration building at Bransten College. Miss Grinnel left the party shortly after ten, and at about ten-thirty drove downtown, arriving at The Quiet Place,
a bar, about eleven o’clock. She stayed until approximately one-thirty A.M. She left with David Pastor, who plays—played—piano at The Quiet Place. They apparently went directly to Mr. Pastor’s apartment and, ah, stayed there for the rest of the night.”

  Larsen thought about that for a moment, finally deciding not to elaborate. “At about eight A.M. this morning,” he continued, “the bodies of Miss Grinnel and Mr. Pastor were found in the bedroom of the apartment by a Miss Alice Herms, the woman who cleans for Pastor. Miss Herms ran out of the apartment and up toward the street, screaming. Pastor’s landlady, Mrs. Viola Boitano, heard the screaming and questioned Miss Herms. Then Mrs. Boitano called the police. The first squad car arrived at about eight-fifteen, followed by three motorcycle patrolmen. At eight twenty-five, the first team of detectives arrived, followed by the coroner’s equipment, the crime lab equipment, and so forth. Now—”

  Larsen cleared his throat and whispered something to Ramsey, who rose and left the stage.

  “Now,” Larsen continued. “Our initial investigation was completed about ten-thirty A.M. although, naturally, the questioning of possible witnesses went on all day, and is still going on, for that matter. However, by ten-thirty we’d gone over the premises, the Medical Examiner had made his preliminary examination, and the bodies were ready to be taken to the coroner’s office for post-mortem examinations and autopsy. And, incidentally, I’ve just got—”

  Ramsey came back on the stage, carrying a paper cupful of water, which Larsen drank thirstily, nodding his thanks.

  “I’ve just got the results of that examination,” he continued, “and they confirm the Medical Examiner’s original estimate. Both victims died somewhere between the hours of three A.M. and six A.M. Mr. Pastor was apparently attacked with some type of unyielding object, like a blackjack, for instance, or a sandbag. There were numerous bruises and contusions on his face and neck, some of which could have been caused by a bare fist. The girl was strangled, and died of asphyxia. The man, on the other hand, died as a result of a ruptured disc in the neck, which in turn damaged the main nerve in the spinal column, paralyzing the brain and causing death. In other words, his neck was broken, apparently by a blow at the base of the neck. As most of you know, such a blow, properly delivered, can easily be lethal, especially if it’s delivered by a weapon, or even by the edge of the hand, for that matter.”