Larsen glanced at his notes. “That covers the sequence of events, I think, and the causes of the deaths. As to the progress of our investigation, most of you have a pretty good idea how that was conducted. We first interviewed everyone possible within a one-block radius of Mr. Pastor’s apartment, and we finished our preliminary investigation in this area about noon. At about eleven A.M. another team of detectives assembled Mr. Pastor’s employer and many of his fellow employees at The Quiet Place and interviewed them. At about that same time, other detectives began looking into Roberta Grinnel’s background, interviewing her friends and teachers at Bransten College.” Larsen once more glanced at his notes, folded the paper twice each way, and returned it to his pocket.
“That’s about as much as I can give you in ‘hard news,’ as you people say. There’ve been no arrests made, and no one is being held as a material witness. And, frankly, we don’t have any really promising leads, although—” for the first time his eyes lit with the pale fire of Nordic humor—“although I’m expecting that you’ll do a little better by me than that. And, officially, of course, we’re ‘expecting a break at any time.’ However, unofficially, I can tell you that, so far, our inquiries haven’t amounted to much. So—” He waved a hand. “That’s about it. If you have any questions, shoot.”
Kreuger, from the A.P., was first.
“Have you been in contact with Mr. Robert Grinnel so far, Captain?”
“No. Mr. Grinnel is due in town just about now, and we have someone meeting him at the airport. After he’s had a chance to get settled and make the identification, I’m planning to talk with him. How much light he can shed on any possible motive for this is, of course, questionable. But we need to know all we can about the girl’s background, and Mr. Grinnel would be an obvious source of this information.” Larsen pointed to Kanter. “Yes, Dan?”
“Well, I was just wondering,” Kanter began, in unaccustomed preamble, “I was just wondering how you see this crime. I mean, thinking about it, I’d probably figure that it was either a crime of passion, committed by a jealous rival for the girl’s affections, or else some sexual pervert did it. And, of course, there’s always the homicidal maniac, I suppose. But, to me anyhow, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern of premeditation here. And robbery is apparently out. Would you agree with that?”
“Well, in general, yes,” Larsen answered cautiously. “Those are obvious possibilities, all of them. So, in that sense, I’d agree.”
“Are there any other possibilities that seem more obvious?” Kanter slipped in the question deftly just as Larsen was turning to a dozen other waving hands.
“No, I wouldn’t say there’s anything more obvious. I will say, though, that your three possibilities cover a lot of ground.” He turned to a TV reporter.
“What about the weapon?” the TV man asked. “Anything more on that?”
“No. We found no weapon. We’re going on the assumption that the murderer took the weapon with him.”
“How did the murderer get into the apartment?” a radio reporter said.
“Well, apparently he just walked in through the front door.” Larsen made a small, puzzled gesture. “At least, there’s no other door, the windows were locked, and there were no signs of forcible entry. And we do know that Pastor often left his door open, especially since he didn’t have much to steal. So either the murderer went in through the unlocked front door, or else they let him in. And in their, ah, condition, that seems unlikely.”
“Was the door unlocked when the cleaning lady arrived?” someone asked.
“Yes. It always was, she says. Of course, Pastor was usually there when she arrived. He slept late, in the bedroom, while she cleaned the other rooms. Then she woke him up.”
“Any fingerprints on the doorknob?”
Larsen grinned ruefully. “Too many.”
“Any fingerprints at all? Meaningful ones?”
“Right now, it doesn’t look like it. We have lots of latent prints, but I’ll be surprised if we develop much from them.”
“Is it true,” I asked, “that no one heard anything at all?”
Regretfully, Larsen nodded. “That seems to be the case, unfortunately. This afternoon we did some tests, with a man in Pastor’s apartment yelling and men in nearby apartments listening. And it seems pretty obvious that it would’ve been difficult to hear much except the highest-pitched, loudest scream.”
“Wouldn’t it be a fair assumption that Miss Grinnel did scream, though?” the man from Graphic Detective asked.
Larsen shrugged. “I’ve known people to do all kinds of things while they’re getting murdered. Including standing perfectly still, waiting for it.”
“But, assuming one man did it,” the Graphic Detective man insisted, “he’d’ve had to murder first one and then the other. And, assuming he murdered Pastor first, I’d think Miss Grinnel would’ve run out of the apartment, or screamed her head off, or something. To me, that’s obvious.”
Again, Larsen shrugged. “It might be obvious to you. Me, I’m just trying to get a few facts together. And until I can find someone who heard screaming, I’ve got to assume there wasn’t any screaming. For that matter, I’ve got to assume that there could’ve been two men, instead of one.” It was obvious he didn’t much care for the man from Graphic Detective.
The Captain nodded at Campion, who said, “It’s my understanding that the ‘small, informal party’ you mentioned”—he waited for the snickers to subside—“was actually a small, informal petting party, complete with bourbon, couches for both couples and no lights. Also, it’s my understanding that Roberta Grinnel enjoyed a campuswide reputation as being a pretty willing bed partner. Would you care to tell us what you’ve discovered about this aspect of the case, Captain?” Campion’s manner was perfectly straight-faced and wide-eyed—a burlesque of innocence.
Larsen suppressed a twitching at the corners of his mouth as he answered. “I’d rather not comment on Miss Grinnel’s morals until they become pertinent to the case. Besides, I have a pension to consider.”
“Do you consider the ‘small, informal party,’” someone asked, “to be completely irrelevant to Roberta Grinnel’s subsequent murder?”
“As of right now, yes.” Larsen thought about it for a moment, and then said, “I think a lot of you are making a mistake that’s probably understandable. You’re assuming that the motive for murder—if there is a rational motive, which I’m frankly inclined to doubt—is centered around Roberta Grinnel. You’re assuming, let’s say, that a rejected lover of the girl’s flipped his lid. This is perfectly understandable from your viewpoint. The girl’s father is a big shot, and that means a big story. However, it’s equally possible that something in Pastor’s background might provide the motive. For instance, you mention Miss Grinnel’s reputation as a—a—lover, we’ll say. Well it so happens that Pastor enjoyed a considerable reputation in that area himself. His background and movements might offer better possibilities for solving the crime than Miss Grinnel’s, in fact. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, as a general rule, college boys from some of the country’s most prominent families just aren’t accustomed to committing double murders.”
“Well, what about Pastor?” Kreuger asked.
Larsen shrugged and smiled at a private little joke.
“I was just giving you an example for the sake of argument. However, as of now, we’ve got nothing that points any more to Pastor than it does to Miss Grinnel.” The small smile widened. “So you can still hope, gentlemen.” He shifted impatiently in his chair. “I’ll just have time for a few more quick questions,” he said.
Immediately, a dozen hands shot up.
“Are your investigations of students complete?”
“Almost. The preliminary investigations are complete. Unless there’s something that doesn’t check out, I’d say ‘yes.’”
“Did John Randall have an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“I don’t think I’ll comment on that
, except to say that Mr. Randall is not a suspect. Repeat: not.”
“Is that a pension-protecting answer, Captain?” It was the man from Graphic Detective.
Larsen regarded him with chill blue eyes. “No,” he answered quietly. “No, it’s not.”
“Was Pastor married?” someone asked.
“Divorced, about two years ago.”
“Is his wife in the area?”
“No. She’s in Chicago.”
“Had Pastor ever been threatened?”
“No, not to our knowledge.”
“Had Miss Grinnel?”
“No.”
“Had Pastor and Miss Grinnel known each other long?”
“About three months, as nearly as we can determine.”
“Were they sleeping together all that time?”
“No comment.”
“How often did they see each other?”
“Once, twice a week.”
“Did they always end up in his apartment?”
“Well, I—” Larsen looked unhappy, and for the first time uncertain of his answer. “I understand they spent a lot of time in the vicinity. Her car, at least, was well known in the neighborhood.”
“Did Pastor have a car?”
“No.”
“Did they always meet at The Quiet Place?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“Then they’d go to his apartment. Is that right?”
The blue eyes hardened. “That’s an assumption you’re entitled to make if you like. Just don’t attribute it to me.”
“From the, ah, disrobed condition of the bodies when they were found, Captain, would you say Pastor and Miss Grinnel were lovers?”
Larsen thought about it, ominously. He was being whipsawed by the reporters, something I never thought he’d permit. And I was right. Slowly, he held up two fingers. His voice was low and cold.
“I’ll take exactly two more questions.” He pointed for the first one.
“Where will Mr. Grinnel be staying, Captain? What hotel?”
“I have no idea. I understand, though, that his secretary arrived in town shortly after one P.M. and made the arrangements.”
“What’s your current theory, Captain? What direction is your investigation taking?”
Larsen sighed, tired now, and finally impatient with us. “I’ve found that theories don’t mean much without facts,” he said. “We’ll work like we always have, checking every conceivable aspect of the case, and every conceivable combination of facts. Then we’ll double check, and then we’ll probably start all over again. Somewhere along the line, we’re hoping something’ll turn up. It usually does.” He rose to his feet, once more calm and self-possessed. “That’ll have to be all for now, gentlemen. We’ve covered everything. If you want, I’ll schedule another briefing for tomorrow, same time, same place. Unless, of course, we get a break in the meantime.”
There were the ritual protests and the ritual pleas for more information. But the three detectives were leaving the lineup stage, and many of the newsmen were already out the doors.
Larsen’s news briefing broke up just before five o’clock. I made for the first phone, called the city desk, and was told that Grinnel had arrived and was en route to the Fairmont. An apprentice reporter had been assigned to bird-dog Grinnel and his entourage, awaiting developments.
“Have a drink and a steak,” the city editor advised. “Take a vacation. Phone in again around seven-thirty.”
“Thanks,” I answered dryly. “Is the steak on me or the expense account?”
He thought about it. “Put it on, and I’ll okay it. That’ll get it to the business office, anyhow.”
“Thanks again.” I hung up and caught a bus going the few blocks downtown. I had two double martinis at my favorite bar, and then a New York steak at my favorite restaurant. By seven o’clock, I’d returned to my favorite bar for an after-dinner cognac.
By seven-thirty, though, I’d started to wonder about developments in the Grinnel case. For all I knew, the case could have been broken in the last hour, even the last few minutes. Making my way a little unsteadily to the phone booth, it occurred to me that, after all, I was at least a fair facsimile of a crime reporter, even without ashes down the front of my vest, or cynicism tugging at the muscles of my face.
I had to wait almost five minutes for the city editor. I was told that he was talking with someone about the Grinnel murder, and I was considering the possibility of a second cognac when my superior’s voice suddenly sounded.
“Steve?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
“Well, nothing, really. Nothing much new, anyhow. Grinnel got in town, and is staying at the Fairmont. The governor’s suite, no less.”
“That figures.”
“Yeah. Now, here’s the rundown on him. He’s traveling with a secretary and a bodyguard. The secretary, a woman, arrived in town about one P.M. and arranged for the accommodations, including a limousine and driver. About four, Grinnel and his bodyguard arrived in Grinnel’s private plane. They were met by the secretary, in the limousine, and Grinnel’s son, Bobby. The four of them—Grinnel, his son, the secretary, and the bodyguard—went immediately to the Fairmont. Two cars of police met them at the airport: a detective cruiser and a squad car. They escorted Grinnel’s car to the Fairmont.”
“Who was in the cruiser; do you know?”
“No.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Go ahead.”
“They got to the Fairmont about five and went right to their room. They didn’t give any interviews. However, at about five-thirty, Grinnel’s secretary appeared in the hallway to announce that, at ten tomorrow morning, Mr. Grinnel would receive the press and make a statement. Then, a few minutes later, Captain Larsen arrived with a couple of other detectives. They talked with Grinnel briefly, not more than ten minutes or so. Then Grinnel and his bodyguard left with the detectives. They went in two detective cruisers to the morgue, where Grinnel identified his daughter’s body. Apparently, Grinnel showed absolutely no emotion, either when he went in the viewing room, or when he came out. He was very pale, but that’s all.”
“Who went in with him?”
“The Captain.”
“What happened then?”
“They drove straight back to Grinnel’s suite, and Larsen went in again, with Grinnel. That was at quarter to seven, and he could still be there, for all I know. Larsen posted two patrolmen in the hallway outside Grinnel’s door.” The editor paused. “Do you think that’d indicate Larsen has some reason to suspect Grinnel might be harmed by the same person who murdered his daughter?” His voice sounded hopeful.
“I doubt it. I think it’s more in the nature of a courtesy, probably more of a protection against reporters, in fact, than against murderers.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well, there probably won’t be much stirring tonight. Why don’t you get some sleep and plan on making Grinnel’s news conference tomorrow morning? That guy’s a real spellbinder, whether you agree with his politics or not. Should be quite a show.”
“Are you going to have someone do a feature on him?”
“I thought I’d wait and see. In the meantime, I had some background material worked up. You can use it in your story. Why don’t you go to the press conference at ten, then come down here and do the story?”
“Well, really, I’d like to have the background stuff before I go to the conference. Suppose I stop by tomorrow morning, before I go to the Fairmont?”
“If you want to, that’s fine. I was trying to give you a little time off.” I thought I caught a faint note of approval in his voice. The city editor was a vintage type, lean, stringy and sixtyish—the type who never smiled on the job, or paid compliments, or believed in God or leisure time or press releases.
“I don’t mind coming down,” I answered, underplaying it. “Anything new from headquarters?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay. I’ll be in about nine o’clock, then, for
that background stuff. Good night.”
“Right. Good night.”
7
INDULGING MYSELF IN THE gathering momentum of the Grinnel case, I decided to take a cab next morning from the Sentinel to the Fairmont, giving myself time to study Grinnel’s biography on the way.
It was fascinating reading. Grinnel’s father, I learned, had been a modestly successful manufacturer and processor of livestock feed, with his plant in Los Angeles. Robert Grinnel took over the business at age twenty-three, when his father suffered a paralytic stroke during the depths of the Depression. In the years that followed, Robert held the business together by pure force of will. He put everything on the block: the family house, the jewels, the Packard, and a large farm. A bachelor at the time, he moved into a furnished room. To save one salary, he learned accounting at night school and worked on the company books in his spare time. And, finally, he moved his paralyzed father from a private nursing home to a county hospital, pleading virtual bankruptcy.
In 1935 he went into food processing, and by 1945 had made a fortune. His plant was the largest frozen food facility west of the Mississippi, and at war’s end, convinced of an ever-larger peacetime demand for his product, Grinnel borrowed heavily to double his production facilities. His only major west coast competitor was equally convinced that a postwar recession was inevitable, and therefore lacked the modernized facilities necessary to meet Grinnel’s competition in the boom that followed.
In 1942, Robert Grinnel married, when he was thirty-four, and in 1946 Roberta was born. The son, Robert, Jr., was born two years later. Grinnel’s marriage apparently lacked even the pretense of love, at least so the gossip went. The children, almost from babyhood, seem to have been little more than devices used by the mother in her futile efforts to strike back at an indifferent husband.
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