The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “What happened then?” Kanter interrupted briskly, glancing at his watch.

  “Well, I was able to localize the origin of this feeling, whatever it was. I decided, for no really rational reason, I suppose, that it was somewhere in the last block. There were two or three houses there, and one of them figured to be it. Whatever ‘it’ was.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. I was too shook. As I remember, I got in my car and drove to the nearest bar and had a drink. You see, a couple of times I’d experienced this sensation were in pretty dire circumstances, and there was a kind of hangover from that, I suppose. And, besides, the experience itself leaves you feeling drained.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, all that afternoon I thought about it. I couldn’t decide what to do.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  Ruefully I smiled. “Tell them what? That I’d felt a little lightheaded walking down the street?”

  Kanter returned the smile. “I see what you mean. Well?”

  “Well, finally, I decided to go back that evening. As a reporter, investigating the disappearance. One way or the other, I had to know. It wasn’t that I had any overwhelming desire to find the girl. It was just that I had to know, one way or the other, whether there was anything to the experience, whether it had any validity. For my own peace of mind.”

  “Had the police got anything more in the meantime?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Kanter nodded, waiting for me to continue.

  “Anyhow, that’s what I did. I went back about seven-thirty that night. I parked my car across from those three houses, and I started ringing doorbells. The first house was empty; no one was living there. In the second house, a man was watching TV, with the lights turned out. I talked to him for maybe fifteen minutes, but nothing conclusive happened, although I got a slight tingling sensation as I left.”

  “A tingling?” His voice was touched with a polite trace of irony.

  Doggedly, I nodded. “I forgot to mention that. Accompanying the feeling of dissociation is a kind of tingling at the base of my neck. I imagine—maybe it’s a fantasy—but I imagine that the hairs at the nape of my neck are stiffening. I know it sounds—” I hesitated, feeling suddenly foolish. But Kanter gestured for me to go on.

  “Anyhow, I left the second house and went to the third. It was a woman, a divorcee. A well-stacked divorcee, incidentally.”

  “Ah, the inevitable well-stacked divorcee.”

  I smiled. “I talked to her for another few minutes. As it happened, she’d been away during the previous night and most of that day, the time when the police were conducting their canvass. I had a picture of the missing girl with me, and I showed it to her. She studied it—she was an intelligent person, very perceptive—and she said she thought she’d seen the girl in the neighborhood the previous Saturday, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “I spent some time trying to get more out of her, but there wasn’t any more to get. ‘All kids look the same when they’re playing,’ she said. And it’s true, I guess. So I left. Well—” I drew a deep breath. In spite of myself, remembering my sensations during the next few moments, I felt a quickening, a vestige of the tingling sensation I’d just described.

  “Well, I left her house and walked across the street. I was just getting into my car, willing to call it a draw, when suddenly I had the same sensation I’d experienced earlier in the day, the same feeling that someone was watching me. So before I actually realized what I was doing, I found myself walking back across the street. I remember being aware of the darkness; there wasn’t any moon, and the weather had been cloudy that day. I remember, too, the sensation of following my feet, you might say. I was just walking, waiting to find out where I was walking.”

  “And where were you walking?” In Kanter’s voice now was a hint of skeptic derision.

  “I was walking toward the second house, where the man had been watching TV in the dark. But I was going around to the side of the house, down the driveway. There were trees on one side, and the house on the other. It was terribly dark, I remember, and it felt very cold. I was shivering. But I kept on. I didn’t seem to have any choice. I found myself standing in the back yard. Just standing there, shivering and waiting for something. Then I heard a movement, a kind of shuffling. A boy was there. He was seventeen, I found out later. He was crouched down by the side of the house, cowering like an animal, watching me. Beside him was a door leading to the basement of the house. I—I knew what was down there in the basement.”

  “The girl’s body?”

  I nodded.

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I turned around and went back the way I’d come. I went to the house next door—the divorcee’s—and called the police. And—” I spread my hands. “And that was it.”

  “Why’d he kill her?”

  I shrugged. “He was one of those retarded kids who should have been put away long before. He was a borderline case, I guess. He’d talked to the Gruenwald girl the week before, when she’d gone to her piano lesson, and he—well—he fell in love with her, I guess. No one knows why, but he did. The girl’s father was a full-time tycoon, and her mother was very busy being a clubwoman. Anyhow, for whatever reason, both the girl and the boy found something in each other. At least that’s the way the police reconstructed it.”

  “What happened then? As far as your end of it was concerned?”

  “Well—” I sighed, lit another cigarette. It was almost ten-thirty. Our breakfast had been eaten long ago, and the city desk would soon be wondering about me. Yet Kanter showed no impatience, and I was anxious to tell it all.

  “Naturally, I had to account to the police for having found the body. At first, I said that I was just running down the story, and got lucky. That would have satisfied most detectives, I suppose. But I was dealing with the chief of detectives, a guy named Nazario, a Spanish-American cop who’s just about as sharp and perceptive as they come. If he were blond and blue-eyed, he’d probably be an outstanding criminologist. He might make it yet, in fact.”

  “I know. I’ve heard of him.”

  “Yeah. Anyhow, Nazario kept picking at me, the way I’d seen him examine hundreds of suspects, just sitting back and sniping. After a half hour or so of that, I told him the whole story.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Briefly, he wasn’t too enthusiastic. He said my story made the San Jose police department look like the south end of a northbound horse, as you put it. Then he reminded me, with no particular tact, that without his co-operation I’d find my job a lot tougher in the future.”

  “So you wrote the story straight. With the San Jose police department as the hero.”

  “Right.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, I finished it about one in the morning, and the brass at the paper felt pretty good about it. Everyone was pounding me on the back. I was just about to go home when an A.P. man showed up. ‘What’s this about you and ESP?’ he asked.”

  Kanter smiled. “You got scooped on your own scoop, in other words. How’d he find out?”

  “I never knew. I do know that, the following day, one of Nazario’s detectives got busted all the way back to patrolman. So I always figured that was the leak.”

  “What happened then?”

  “As you say, I’d gotten scooped on my own scoop. By that time, the managing editor was out of bed, and in about three short minutes I’d gone from hero to goat. From his point of view, of course, I’d committed a sacrilege. After I got him cooled down, I tried to explain the whole thing, that the decision was Nazario’s, not mine. Whereupon the managing editor really started to howl. ‘Managed news,’ he squawked. ‘Freedom of the press.’ ‘Democracy.’ Then he called up the publisher. By this time, it was two in the morning, and the A.P. man had left to file his story. Next the publisher arrives, complete with topcoat worn over silk pajamas. He called up his friend the p
olice commissioner and started in with freedom of the press and managed news and democracy all over again. Meanwhile, I ducked out and tried to warn Nazario, but the desk sergeant wouldn’t give me Nazario’s home phone number. The desk sergeant, by the way, also got busted to a patrolman. So, the next morning, Nazario picked up the paper and read precisely the story I’d agreed not to write. Then he got a call from the police commissioner, who asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, managing the news and abridging the freedom of the press and threatening the fiber of democracy.”

  “But you, in the meantime, had become a celebrity. An overnight celebrity.”

  I nodded. It was now almost eleven. But I didn’t care. I would sit there as long as Kanter would sit. My story wasn’t finished.

  “You were written up in Time,” he continued, amused now.

  I nodded.

  “And Newsweek.”

  I nodded.

  “And you got an offer to come to the Sentinel as their resident clairvoyant.”

  I must have groaned.

  “You’ve been ballyhooed. Romanced. Your picture has been displayed on the Sentinel’s newspaper racks and also on both sides of their trucks.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “And the San Francisco Police Department, to a man, hates you. They think you’re a charlatan. Or, worse, a publicity seeker, finding fame at the expense of hard-working, harassed, underpaid cops.”

  I looked at him. “They’re not the only ones. There’re agnostics everywhere.”

  “I know,” he said thoughtfully. “But at least now I can see the problem. Maybe you should buy a full-page ad and explain your position. A full-page ad in the Dispatch, for instance.”

  I managed a smile. A waitress began pointedly clearing the table, but Kanter ignored her.

  “You once mentioned other experiences with clairvoyance. What were they?”

  “Well, the first really specific experience came when I was twelve. We’d gone on a weekend camping trip, my parents, myself and my brother and sister. My brother was fourteen, and my sister was eight. The second day, the three of us kids were playing in a small river near our campsite. My brother and I had made a raft out of logs, and were very much occupied with the project even though my parents had told us, specifically, to keep an eye on Kathy. Suddenly we realized she was missing. And, in that same instant, I realized that I was running as fast as I could—away from my brother, and upstream. I—I’ll never forget the next few seconds as long as I live. There was a turn in the river, maybe fifty yards upstream, and that’s where I was heading. When I got there and could look around a projection in the riverbank, I saw Kathy floating face down in the water. It was the—the most terrible—” I shook my head.

  “Was she all right?”

  I nodded. “Thanks to my brother, she was all right. He knew artificial respiration.”

  Kanter exhaled. “A happy ending.”

  “Yes.” I paused, collecting myself. Whenever I told the story, I inevitably felt drained. The image of Kathy floating face down often troubled my sleep.

  “What were the other experiences?”

  I shrugged. “They weren’t as dramatic to me as finding Kathy. One concerned a suicide. My father owned a hardware store, right here in San Francisco. He still owns it, in fact. Well, one Saturday I was working in the store. I was maybe fifteen at the time. A man came in the store and bought a quart of turpentine. I’d never seen him before; as far as I know, he was a perfect stranger. But, just as I took his money, I had this—this terribly clear vision of the man lying dead in a pool of his own blood. He—somehow I knew he’d killed himself. And—” I cleared my throat. “And sure enough, that night he committed suicide.”

  “Are you sure it was the same man?”

  “Positive. My parents knew him, as it turned out. They knew he’d been in the store during the afternoon. They even knew what he’d bought; they’d heard from his wife.”

  “Did you tell your parents about the vision?”

  I shook my head. “No, I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was ashamed. Frightened, almost. No one likes to feel that he’s different; not really. Besides, I was always very close to my father. And Dad, for some reason, always poked fun at gypsies, and fortunetelling, and séances. He’s the kind of man who normally doesn’t make fun of people or their beliefs. But, for some reason, he was down on mysticism. He dislikes any kind of superstition, and he thinks the two go together. Which, of course, they often do.”

  “How’s he feel about your, ah, current exploits?”

  “We very seldom talk about it. I’m afraid Dad thinks it’s all a publicity gimmick.”

  “It should’ve made a believer of him, though, when you found your sister.”

  “No, it didn’t. Because, even then—even at that first experience—my instinct was to conceal it. I was ashamed, as I said. It’s something I still feel. Intellectually, everything I’ve ever learned or believed contradicts ESP. But it just happens to me. I’m stuck with it.”

  “These, ah, visions,” Kanter said slowly, “seem to be concerned with tragedy.”

  “That’s quite common in ESP. One theory is that everyone, clairvoyant or not, is constantly receiving impressions at the subconscious level, but that only the strongest impressions penetrate up through the consciousness. Clairvoyants, according to some authorities, simply have a clearer channel to their subconscious.”

  “Is that your theory?”

  I shrugged. It was quarter to twelve. Time to be going.

  “I don’t have a theory,” I answered. “I just sit there and watch it happen. Regretfully, some of the time. As I’ve said.”

  “I see what you mean.” Kanter picked up his check and prepared to propel himself to his feet.

  “Well, I’ll have to do a little thinking about all this. Maybe I’ll modify my agnosticism. In the meantime, good luck with the Detective Bureau and all the other nonbelievers. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  “You’re probably right,” I agreed ruefully.

  “And I still stick to what I said—your only solution is to pick a convenient murder and solve it. You need leverage, my boy. And you’re only going to get it with results.”

  I smiled, repeating wryly, “A convenient murder. That’s something we usually have—a convenient murder.”

  3

  TWO DAYS LATER, A twenty-year-old girl was found murdered in a thirty-seven-year-old man’s apartment.

  I was in the press room at headquarters when the story broke. I was drinking an early morning cup of coffee with Jim Campion, of the Courier. A tall, hatchet-faced detective named Micheletti lounged into the press room and stood leaning against the agelessly stained oak door frame.

  “You the only members of the press around?” he asked, sucking at his teeth.

  We were both regarding him very attentively. It was a story. Slowly, still with his eyes on Micheletti, Campion placed his coffee cup on the table. Just as automatically, I did the same. We both reached for our raincoats and hats. I glanced at the rain-streaked window and sighed.

  “Something?” Campion asked, rising to his feet.

  “A homicide.”

  “Where?” I slipped into my raincoat.

  “North Beach. Union Street just up from Grant.”

  “Who?” Campion asked.

  Micheletti consulted a slip of paper he held in his hand. “A man and a girl. David Pastor is the man, and the girl’s name is Robert—” Micheletti paused, frowning irritably down at the paper. “That can’t be right.”

  “What can’t be right?” We began advancing on the detective, who still stood blocking the doorway.

  “It must be Roberta. Yeah, Roberta Grinnel. That’s the girl.”

  “G-r-i-n-n-e-l?” Campion asked.

  “Right,” Micheletti answered laconically, turning now to depart. But, remembering something, he turned back.

  “You see any of the rest of yo
ur guys, you tell them. Understand?” He fixed us with his flat, official stare.

  Nodding, we edged past him, making for the phones. As I dialed, waited, and then gave the initial facts to the city desk, I watched Micheletti leaning heavily against a coffee machine as he waited for his cup to fill. I’d heard that Micheletti had a vicious temper. I wondered where he found the energy.

  “You want a photographer?” the desk asked.

  “Probably.” I shrugged at the phone. “After all, it’s a double-header.”

  “Right.” The desk hung up.

  I waited for Campion to finish his similar chore, and we walked together down the broad, littered steps of downtown police headquarters. We kept our cars in the same parking lot, a block and a half away. Campion, tall and rangy, was setting a brisk pace, and within the first few strides I found myself almost trotting beside him. Campion was one of those deceptively awkward-looking men who actually covered the ground with surprising speed. His usually breezy manner was also deceptive, concealing an agile mind, capable of considerable subtlety.

  “They’re dead,” I said. “They’ll keep.”

  Frowning to himself, Campion didn’t answer.

  “What’re you thinking about?” I asked.

  “He said Robert Grinnel. I was just wondering—” He chewed at his lip, staring off down the street.

  Robert Grinnel: a familiar name. A political figure. Radical right wing. A wealthy industrialist.

  Roberta Grinnel …

  “Does he have a daughter?” I asked. By now, I was panting. Campion seemed to be increasing the pace.

  “I’m pretty sure he does. In fact—” Again his voice trailed off.

  “In fact what?” As the crime reporters for San Francisco’s two rival morning papers, Campion and I had arrived at a close, if informal working agreement during the six weeks of my hectic tenure. Without once mentioning the harassment I’d been getting from the Detective Bureau, Campion had stepped good-naturedly forward to show me the ropes. Whenever possible, I reciprocated. So now I was slightly irked at his reticence, not to mention the pace he was setting.