“So the only thing we can do, if I’m right,” he interrupted, “is to just wait until he tries it again—and maybe even again. You know yourself how these things go. Once every five years or so, somewhere in the country, some kind of a loony genius starts knocking off a succession of people, just for kicks. And because there’s nothing to tie him to the victims—and because some loonies are diabolically clever—it takes a long time to find them.”
He spread his hands, as his eyes became withdrawn and moody. “Maybe it’s San Francisco’s turn. One of the things we checked was a Jack the Ripper M.O., and we didn’t find anything more recent than cases fourteen, fifteen years old. So maybe we’re due. Besides, I don’t have to tell you how many unsolved murders we get in a year’s time. And, of those, the majority are undoubtedly committed by nuts. There isn’t one murder in twenty that’s committed by an otherwise sane person, with malice aforethought, premeditated, in other words. Murders are either committed in hot blood or else to satisfy some kind of an abnormal craving. Or else they’re committed accidentally, in the commission of a robbery. But that kind of murder is almost always solved, so I’ll stick by what I said—most unsolved murders are committed by nuts, without rational motives.”
“And you’ve ruled out robbery? Still?”
“Anything’s possible, of course. But it never looked like robbery to me.”
I nodded, thinking about it. Then, taking a deep breath, I asked the question I’d come to put to him. I tried to pitch my voice to a neutral, noncommittal tone as I said, “You interviewed Bobby Grinnel, didn’t you—the girl’s brother?”
He nodded, watching me. Plainly, I hadn’t slipped the question into the conversation unnoticed.
“What’d you think of him?” I asked.
“As a suspect, you mean?”
“No, no. Just in general. What’d you think of him?”
He shrugged, collecting his impressions. “I thought he was a semi-hysterical, semi-lightweight, semi-nothing. What about you?” In the question was a faint note of authority.
It was time, I decided, to be as candid with the Captain as he’d been with me, simply as a matter of good faith, and therefore good business.
So I answered promptly, without hedging. “I think he suspects someone that neither one of us do.”
“Who is it?” Authority’s edge was plainer in his voice now.
“I don’t know.” I looked him directly in the eye as I said it. “I’ve tried to find out, but he won’t tell me.”
He nodded slowly. “I see.” Absently, he withdrew the pad and the pencil from the drawer, and once more began to doodle. Then, as if he were trying to break himself of an annoying habit, he pushed both away, frowning at himself.
“How many times did you question Bobby?” I asked.
“Twice. Both times, I questioned him myself.”
“Did you get the impression that he was holding anything back?”
“No. He was terribly upset, naturally, so it was pretty difficult, really, to get much of anything out of him. But I didn’t think he was holding anything back.”
“Did you check out his movements on the night of the murder?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “No discrepancies.”
“He couldn’t’ve been at the scene of the crime, for instance? As a witness, I mean?”
“A witness?” He seemed almost shocked at the suggestion. “A witness?” he repeated, as if I’d said something farcical.
Now it was my turn to shrug apologetically.
“It’s just that I was trying to cover every possibility. I mean—” My voice trailed off, uncertainly, I knew.
“Well, even as a possibility, it’s almost nonexistent. Freshmen and sophomores, you see, have roommates. And, in checking him out, the first thing I did was have his roommate interviewed—unobtrusively, of course. As far as he knows, Bobby was in bed all night. And, in fact, the roommate had an earache that night and was up and down, taking medicine. So it’s virtually a lock-up that Bobby couldn’t’ve been out of the dormitory.”
I thought about it, taking time to offer Larsen a cigarette and then lighting one for myself: my first of the interview, strangely. He declined the cigarette, then took an ash tray out of a drawer and pushed it across to me.
“Did you think Bobby might’ve had some special connection with his sister’s death?” I asked. “I mean, is that the reason you questioned him?”
“No, not at all. I just figured that he’d be a good source of information on the girl. Although, I’ll admit, he’s odd enough that he’d stick out in any investigation.” Larsen smiled in good-humored irony. “You know, like the leering housekeeper, or something.”
“How do you mean, odd?”
He shrugged. “Oh, you know: all this wild-eyed political stuff, for instance.” He grimaced in wry distaste. “The F.F.F., or whatever they call it. Nazis, would be more like it.”
I felt a sudden, almost palpable surge of something deep within: a quick tilting of reality and unreality, an instantaneous fusing of the past, the present, and a single strange fragment of the future.
My own words sounded somehow dim and distant as I asked, “The F.F.F., did you say?”
“Yes. Grinnel’s outfit.”
“I know. But are you saying that Bobby has something to do with it?”
“Sure. As a matter of fact, the authorities at Bransten were seriously considering asking him to leave at the end of the term, because he was making such a nuisance of himself. Not only that, but he was actually hauled downtown in a paddy wagon once for rioting with the local chapter of the F.F.F. I gather he’s sort of a junior fuehrer, or something. He’s the pride of the local chapter, as I understand it—and also its biggest, king-sized pain in the behind. Apparently it’s his playpen, or something, where he can go out and get dressed up and act fierce without worrying about the bigger kids.” He paused, looking at me closely. “Didn’t you know all this?”
“No, I didn’t.” I was having difficulty containing a strange, urgent excitement. I knew it must show.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that it’s time you told me why you’re so interested in Bobby Grinnel. When I think about it, I’ve been doing all the talking.” He smiled. But now the smile was somehow more professional, smoother, and more purposeful.
“There’s not really much I can tell you, Captain. Honestly. The whole story is that, when I saw Bobby Grinnel the first time, at the scene of the crime, I got a strange feeling that he was involved, somehow. Or at least that he had some strange, unhealthy bond with the girl’s death. Then, at Grinnel’s news conference the following day, I had the feeling that Bobby knew something about how she died, or at least was connected with it, somehow.” I shook my head, feeling helpless to express myself, and feeling suddenly drained at the effort. “I can’t explain it, even to myself. But that’s what this clairvoyance is all about. It’s—it’s just feelings. It’s—” I’d run out of words. I felt somehow like a felon sitting in a felon’s chair. I reached forward and jerkily snubbed out my cigarette, unable to meet Larsen’s quiet, appraising gaze.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, the office was very quiet, until, finally, Larsen spoke.
“I don’t think,” he said softly, “that there’s much more we can do for each other. And as a matter of fact—” he glanced at his watch, pointedly—“as a matter of fact, I’m supposed to meet my wife for lunch in ten minutes.”
I rose, suddenly glad to be free. He rose with me, and we walked to his office door together. I opened it, and then turned back. “Thanks very much, Captain. I’ll keep in touch with you if I find out anything.”
He nodded, a strange, inscrutable expression in his eyes, as if he were trying to finally make up his mind about me in that last moment.
“Fine,” he answered. “And I’ll do the same. If there’s anything more you want, let me know.” Suddenly, he put out his hand. “Good luck,” he said, smiling at
me.
I shook his hand. “Thanks. Thanks very much.” I turned and quickly walked down the hallway.
12
AFTER LEAVING LARSEN AND after a quick lunch, I went down to the paper and looked up our files on the local Forward For Freedom movement. I discovered that the office was currently located in a third-rate downtown office building, and that the permanent staff consisted of a part-time director and a part-time executive secretary. The director’s name, I learned, was George Ferguson. Or, at least, Mr. Ferguson had been director at the time the F.F.F. had picketed a Zionist charity event some six months previously. The executive secretary’s name wasn’t available in our files.
As I was copying down the address given for the F.F.F., I heard myself being paged on the P.A. system. Frowning, I picked up the interoffice phone.
“What’re you doing there?” It was the city editor. His voice, predictably, was irate. “I’ve been trying to get you all over town.”
I explained what I was doing, reminding him that the managing editor had given me a week’s leave of absence.
“Well, you can do what you want,” he said with heavy irony. “I just thought you might be interested in a little information we got a few minutes ago.”
“What kind of information?”
“The F.B.I., according to what I hear, are questioning a prime suspect in the Grinnel case. I don’t suppose, under the circumstances, you’d be interested in going down to the Federal Building. Just to keep your hand in.”
“But—” I glanced at my watch. It was three-fifteen. “But I talked with Captain Larsen at noon. How long’ve they—I mean—”
“Never mind; I’ll find someone else. Some ordinary reporter.”
“Where’ve they got the suspect?”
“The local F.B.I, headquarters, as I’ve already mentioned, are in the Federal Building. Which is where they usually question suspects. Now, do you think you’d like to—?”
“I’m leaving. I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve got something.”
As I gathered up my brief notes on the F.F.F., I found myself wondering whether Robert Grinnel’s check had already cleared. Probably not, I decided; it had been on deposit less than twenty-four hours.
Leaving the Sentinel building, I ruefully speculated on a Jaguar XKE, one of the purchases I was contemplating with the balance of my fee, seven thousand dollars.
Next, waiting for a cab, I thought about Larsen’s remark that he didn’t know what the F.B.I, was doing until he read it in the papers. Almost certainly, the suspect would have been arrested earlier in the day; doubtless the interrogation had been completed at about 2 P.M., at which time the news had been leaked to the press.
The suspect, then, had probably been in custody during the time I was sitting in Larsen’s office talking about the F.B.I.’s methods.
When I arrived at the Federal Building, both Kanter and Jim Campion were waiting in the F.B.I.’s conference room, along with several other reporters and photographers. The chair beside Kanter was empty.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
Kanter shrugged. “It’s very mysterious. Which, of course, it always is.”
I told him about my conversation with Larsen, while Campion listened avidly.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Campion asked, “that Larsen hadn’t been notified there was a suspect in custody?”
“Not unless he was lying to me,” I said. “Or unless this is the world’s fastest interrogation. But you know yourself: a complete interrogation takes hours, days sometimes. Also, you know that the F.B.I, never goes off half cocked. So—”
An inner door opened and two men strode briskly into the room, sitting at the head of the huge conference table. The older man I’d met only once: Alex Swanson, in charge of the F.B.I.’s regional office. Like all F.B.I, agents I’d ever known, Swanson seemed perfectly cast in his role. His iron-gray hair was thick and closely cropped; his pale eyes were quick and shrewd. His suit was conservatively cut; his smile was affable yet businesslike. He placed a manila folder before him on the table, opened the folder, and arranged several typewritten sheets to his satisfaction. For a moment he studied the papers. Then, raising his eyes, he said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He gestured to the younger man seated at his right. “This is Mr. Gerald Long. From Washington.”
Mr. Long, also perfectly cast, smiled the same affable, all-American smile.
Now, clearing his throat, Swanson adjusted his expression to the occasion.
“As most of you know,” he said, “we have a suspect in custody in the murder of Roberta Grinnel and David Pastor. The suspect’s name is Alfred Reusch, spelled R-e-u-s-c-h.” He waited for us to write, then continued: “Mr. Reusch is a white, male, ah—” Swanson hesitated. “Call him Polish; at this point we’re still checking. Age twenty-nine. Mr. Reusch has been under surveillance by local agents of the F.B.I. for two days. He was detained shortly after midnight last night, and has been interrogated intermittently during last night and this morning. We have a signed confession, which we obtained at approximately one P.M. today.” Pausing, Swanson looked around the conference table. His manner was that of a successful executive presiding over an important committee meeting. Finally he said, “I think that about covers the pertinent details, gentlemen. Now we’ll take your questions.” He moved his hand toward the man seated at his right. “Mr. Long is with the Documents Division in Washington. He did a lot of groundwork leading to the apprehension of Mr. Reusch.”
I was the first to speak. “Can we interview the suspect?”
“That’ll be up to the local authorities. We aren’t asking for a Federal indictment, since the actual murder isn’t within our jurisdiction. The suspect will be turned over to local authorities after we’ve completed two more depositions.”
“How did the F.B.I. come into the case in the first place?” someone asked.
“The suspect was first connected to the Grinnel family by anonymous threatening letters sent through the mails. Aside from that, of course, our facilities are always at the disposal of local authorities in capital cases.”
“What was the motive for the murders?” Kanter asked.
Looking at Kanter, Swanson hesitated, then glanced down at his notes. He spoke with a deliberate, official gravity.
“The best way I can answer that, I think, is to give you some of Mr. Reusch’s background. He is Polish, as I’ve said. His family was Jewish. When Mr. Reusch was a boy of four or five, he and his parents were taken into custody by the Nazis, then occupying Warsaw. The father and mother were made servants in the household of a high-ranking S.S. officer back in Berlin, and the boy was taken along. The Nazi officer’s wife became very attached to the boy—abnormally attached, I gather, partly as a result of her own child’s death. In any case, when it came time for the Reusch family to go to Dachau, the Nazi officer’s wife wanted to keep the boy, Alfred. The Nazi said it was impossible, and the entire Reusch family was shipped off, to be liquidated. However, at the last moment, the boy was saved through the intervention of the officer. Approximately a year later, the officer was killed in action.
“His wife remained in Berlin with the boy. She was killed in the final bombardment of the city. The boy was buried under a fallen building; he was buried for three days, but somehow managed to dig his way out. However—” Swanson paused, to clear his throat. Obviously, he wasn’t enjoying his recitation. Yet the compulsion to recall each detail must have been stronger than his discomfort. Taking a deep breath, he continued.
“However, when he was finally rescued, the boy was unable to speak. For a year, he was unable to talk, because of shock. Finally, though, he got his speech back, and by the time he was ten, he was receiving aid from one of the Jewish relief agencies. After five years of European refugee camps, he was sent to America as a Jewish war orphan.
“During his middle teens, he began to show signs of severe depression and psychological unbalance. He went from one foster family to another, and finally h
e just disappeared; ran away, in other words. He’d been living in the eastern part of the United States, mostly New York, and he came out west when he was approximately sixteen years old. We gather that he worked as a field hand for several years. But then, gradually, he became more and more withdrawn and depressed. He wouldn’t talk to people; the term is catatonic, I believe. Finally he was committed to a state hospital for the insane, down in Los Angeles. He was cured, more or less, after a year or two, and he went back to working in the fields. It was then, apparently, that he happened to hear Mr. Grinnel speak at a Forward For Freedom rally. As nearly as we can determine, the rally was held down in Fresno approximately a year ago. Reusch became—” Swanson hesitated, searching for the word. “He became obsessed with the idea that he had to oppose Mr. Grinnel’s work, at whatever cost. So Reusch began writing crank letters. He never gave a return address, of course, and since he was essentially a transient, it was almost impossible to trace these letters. And, in addition, the F.F.F. over the years has become accustomed to crank letters. Initially, they used to report them to the postal authorities; now they ignore all but the actual, hard-core threats. Mr. Reusch, for instance, threatened Mr. Grinnel’s life on at least one occasion.”
“Were you notified at that time?” Campion asked.
Swanson shook his head. “No, we weren’t. The Los Angeles police were notified, which is customary.”
“How did you actually run Reusch down?” someone asked.
Obviously, Swanson had been anticipating this question. His manner became subtly more expansive, like a self-confident professor lecturing on a favorite subject.
“Immediately after the Grinnel murder, we received from the local authorities some three thousand crank letters sent to the Forward For Freedom movement over the past fifteen years. It was our job to decide which letters meant business, so to speak. Then, having made that initial breakdown, we tried to run down the letter writers geographically, starting with those known to reside in California.” Swanson turned to the other agent, smiling his executive’s smile. “Perhaps Mr. Long can take it from there. Unless—” he looked around the table—“unless there’re any questions on what I’ve said so far.”
The Black Door Page 13