The Black Door (16 page)

“Did you find many people with motives?”

He shook his head. “No. Actually just three, if you count Pastor’s wife—which I don’t.”

“Who were the other two?”

“John Randall, who you know about, and a girl named Joyce Hastings, the one Pastor went around with for a year or so before Roberta Grinnel appeared on the scene.”

“And you give both of them a completely clean bill?”

“Well—” He thought about it. “In this business, nothing’s completely certain, especially in the absence of a corroborated alibi. However, I’m satisfied.”

“What about some nutty kid that might’ve had a crush on Roberta without her even knowing?”

He shrugged. “There’s always that, of course. Except that, to qualify, he’s got to murder both people efficiently and quietly in an apartment building in the dead of night, and then get away without leaving a trace.” He shook his head. “That’s a tough proposition. A guy could plan it for a year and still get caught.”

“When I talked to Mr. Grinnel,” I said, “he mentioned a file of crank letters that you photostated, and apparently the F.B.I, did, too. Has anything developed from that?”

“Nothing developed from our end, and we haven’t heard from the F.B.I. There were some three thousand letters; that’s pretty long odds.”

“How is the F.B.I, handling their investigation?”

Wryly he shrugged. “You never know how the F.B.I, is handling an investigation until you read about it in the papers. You don’t have to quote me, but it’s the truth, at least in my experience. However, I will say that the F.B.I, is the only law-enforcement agency capable of getting a pattern from those letters. To mean anything, we’d have to find the crank and then connect him with Roberta Grinnel. And we just don’t have the facilities.”

“Mr. Grinnel, of course, thinks that the murder was aimed at him.”

“In my opinion,” Larsen said evenly, “Mr. Grinnel is also a crank. You don’t have to quote me on that, either.”

I smiled. “What’s your theory on the case, Captain?”

“Well—” An expression of distaste crossed his face. “Of course, ‘theories’ are something I find just gum up the works. Theories are actually preconceptions, and too often you’re tempted to make the facts fit the theory, instead of vice versa. However, my opinion is that they were murdered by a nut, some kind of a homicidal maniac, probably. And, whether we muffed our initial investigation or not, the fact remains that, by now, the guy’s deep down underground, with his hole pulled in around him.”

“But how’re you going to—?”

“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.

A
FTER 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.”