The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “What’re you getting at?” I asked.

  “Well, about six months ago we did a feature piece on Bransten College, and among other things we inventoried some of the famous sons and daughters they’ve got out there. And, if I’m not mistaken, Robert Grinnel’s daughter is a student. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure her name is Roberta. The reason I remember, he’s got a son going to Bransten, too, and his name is Robert. Bobby for short.”

  “Are they twins?”

  “No. She’s a couple of years older.”

  “Then why name them Robert and Roberta, I wonder?”

  Campion smiled his familiar, quick, ironic smile. “It’s the monogramed cuff link syndrome. If you’re an egotist, you surround yourself with yourself.”

  “I’d think of him as a paranoiac, more than an egotist.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I shrugged. “Those Fascist-type right-wingers think everyone’s out to get them. Paranoiacs and egotists, I suppose.” Then I gasped for breath.

  He shrugged in return, as together we dismissed the lunatic political fringe. Now we were turning into the parking lot. Gratefully, I slackened my pace as I made for my own car.

  “See you at the scene,” I said.

  “Right.” Campion got in his car and immediately began grinding the starter. Shaking the light rain from my coat and tossing my hat in the back seat, I started my own engine. As I pulled out of line, I saw Campion getting out of his car and waving to me. I stopped, and he got in the passenger’s seat.

  “The damn thing won’t start.” He slammed the door.

  “It’s the rain.” I turned into the street, gathering speed. “Maybe you should wipe off the ignition wires.”

  Smiling, Campion stretched. “And miss a big story? I’d rather ride with the opposition.”

  For several moments we drove in silence. The intersection of Union and Grant was perhaps ten minutes away. Soon, we would know.

  Finally Campion said, “This could be a homicide that will sell a few papers.”

  “You may be right.”

  “What’s she doing in North Beach, though? Making the beatnik scene?”

  “Other people live in North Beach besides beatniks. In fact, I understand the beatniks are all moving down to West Venice, because so many people are going to North Beach to look at the beatniks.”

  “I wonder who this David Pastor is?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Neither did I.”

  I blew the horn at an erratic Chevrolet. “Is Bransten College that very small, very exclusive, very secluded place out near the park? With all the trees around it?”

  “That’s right. They only have about three hundred students. But someone estimated there’re a hundred millionaire’s families represented in the student body.”

  “Is it a country club school?”

  Decisively, Campion shook his head. “Anything but. Those kids work like dogs. And if they don’t get the grades, they’re out on their elegant little posteriors. With dispatch. Not only that, but the place has a reputation for liberalism bordering on Marxism, the result being that Moneybags Daddy pays an exorbitant tab to have his child educated into thinking he’s a nasty, capitalistic villain who should share the wealth, instead of indulging the whims of his loving children.”

  I smiled, turning into Union Street. Campion rearranged his long legs under the dashboard and refolded his long arms.

  “I’d like to know,” he mused, “just how many Roberta Grinnels there are in a city the size of San Francisco. I’ll bet, at the most, there aren’t more than two. And, therefore, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s the Roberta Grinnel. Also, Micheletti said ‘girl,’ not ‘woman.’ That shortens the odds.”

  “Why don’t you just give your brain a rest? In a few minutes, we’ll know.”

  “You clairvoyants are all the same—intellectual conservationists.”

  I braked for an amber light, pointedly not replying. Campion had never ragged me about ESP. I wanted to keep it that way.

  But he was already changing the subject.

  “The other significant thing about Bransten College,” he was saying, “is that, in addition to its reputation for Marxism, it also enjoys a considerable reputation as a hotbed of free love.”

  “Oh?” I accelerated away from the traffic light. Only a few blocks remained. “Free love?” I was beginning to wonder whether we’d be the first newsmen at the scene, and whether Micheletti had called the radio stations.

  “Right, free love. We demonstrate this point to the newspaper reading public by pointing out that, at Bransten, the students can come and go as they like. No hours. No housemothers. Nothing.”

  “That doesn’t seem to go with a strict academic program. I’d think that—” Ahead was the Grant Avenue intersection. Union Street had been cordoned off, and a uniformed officer was waving us aside. I slowed the car, flipping down the visor, with its Press Car sign. The officer motioned me to a convenient fire hydrant. As we got out, I was conscious of the scene’s heightened tempo. There was more of everything—more policemen, more detectives, more cars and more lab men. This was no ordinary crime.

  As we walked slowly toward it all, a gray Volkswagen was passing through the police barricades and pulling in beside the ambulance. It was Detective Captain Gunther Larsen’s car. Silently I pointed to the long, lanky Larsen, extricating himself from the small car.

  Campion nodded. “Just come from home. It is a big one.”

  We watched as Larsen conferred with a broad, beefy homicide detective named Carruthers. Then the two men turned and walked toward the center of activity, a solid old building squatting unpretentiously in the middle of the block. Built originally as a four-flat structure, the building probably now housed six or eight smaller apartments, remodeled piecemeal over the years. Trailing Larsen at a discreet distance, we saw him gradually collect a small retinue of detectives as he walked. Pausing now in front of the building, Larsen was listening attentively to Carruthers, who was pointing down a serviceway running alongside the building. Following his gesture, I saw Lieutenant Ramsey, one of my tormentors, standing midway down the narrow service walkway. Another detective stood with him. They were staring at a doorway, painted black and decorated with an ornate brass knob and knocker.

  It was probably, I realized, the door of the murdered man’s apartment. The couple could have parked on the street close by, entered the apartment through the black door, and then been murdered sometime in the night. I glanced at Jim Campion, who was also staring down the passageway. Then, almost in unison, we sighed. The grisly, predictable ritual of crime reporting was about to begin—the long, dreary waiting for the first meager details, the pandering to the police for additional information, and then the hours at the typewriter writing a story that would probably be outdated before the presses stopped rolling.

  As we watched, Ramsey turned toward the street and, seeing Larsen, raised his hand in a half salute. Immediately Ramsey and his assistant walked toward the other detectives. The assembled detectives stood in a ragged huddle around Larsen. I counted heads: seven in all.

  Ramsey, as the ranking officer first on the scene, was doing most of the talking, making his explanations to his superior. Ramsey pointed up the street. Following his gesture, I noticed a red Porsche coupe, parked on the opposite side of the street. A crime lab technician was inside the car, dusting the dashboard for fingerprints. A uniformed officer stood on either side of the car and, at a distance, stood the inevitable bystanders, numbering perhaps a half dozen.

  Now Ramsey pointed down the passageway. Larsen wasn’t following the gesture, but instead stood with hands in his pockets, staring down at the sidewalk. Now Carruthers added something. Larsen looked up, as if questioning the detective. Carruthers looked puzzled, then faintly defensive. Finally he shrugged, looked away, and seemed to pout slightly. It was a familiar tableau. Larsen, the commanding officer, was getting briefed on the crime and the investiga
tion’s progress. Soon he would assign the officers their duties. Then, undoubtedly, he and Ramsey, and perhaps Carruthers, would go together to Larsen’s chosen command post, probably the apartment behind the black door.

  “Looks like we’re the first ones,” Campion said softly. “I’m surprised.” Then, in amendment, “Oh, oh.”

  I looked around, following his gaze. Dan Kanter was making his way toward us. It always amused me to see Kanter walk for any distance. He seemed to resent the necessity for propelling his awkward bulk from one place to another. As he came up to us, I looked at the sky. It was clearing. I wished I’d left my raincoat in the car.

  “What’s doing?” Kanter asked, puffing from the exertion of his half-block walk.

  “A double-header,” Campion replied.

  “Any statement yet?”

  “Not even a captain’s smile.” Campion pointed up to the red Porsche. “Apparently that belongs to someone involved.” He pointed down to the black door. “Apparently that’s the apartment.” And, as we watched, the black door opened. Two men from the crime lab came out, carrying their equipment. They approached the group of detectives, respectfully standing on its fringes. And now, finally, the group broke up. Predictably, four of the detectives walked briskly away, to begin the long, tedious questioning of possible witnesses. Making his way through the small crowd of onlookers, one of the detectives paused as an elderly woman plucked urgently at his sleeve. The woman wore a frowzy housecoat and a pair of men’s carpet slippers. In spite of the clearing skies she clutched at a cheap plastic umbrella, which the detective had to dodge as she talked urgently up into his impassive face. Patiently he nodded, took out his notebook, and wrote something down. Then, disengaging himself, he moved away.

  The investigation had begun.

  After talking with the crime lab men, Larsen and Ramsey started down the passageway. Carruthers turned to us.

  “The Captain says to stick around for ten, fifteen minutes. There’s a few things he wants to clear up before he talks to you.”

  Campion grabbed Carruthers’ arm as the detective tried to turn away.

  “Is the girl Robert Grinnel’s daughter?” he asked.

  “Who’s David Pastor?” I said.

  “When was it committed?” Kanter asked.

  Impatiently, Carruthers shook us off. “I already told you—the Captain’ll talk to you in ten, fifteen minutes. And that’s all I can tell you.” He walked away, following his two superiors. Obviously, he’d had his orders concerning the press.

  At that moment I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my photographer: a pool man named Caselli, a young, faintly insolent, fairly competent photographer who seemed to dislike reporters on principle. For my last two assignments, I’d drawn Caselli. Wondering whether the city editor had decided to make us a twosome, I pointed to the Porsche. “That’s the car.” Again I pointed. “The house.” Then, swinging my arm, “That’s the entrance to the apartment, a garden apartment, apparently.”

  Caselli snorted. “Garden apartment. Basement apartment, I’d say.”

  Ignoring the gambit, I said, “Don’t stint on the film. This looks like a big one.” I’d discovered that brusqueness was the only way to handle Caselli. Conversation inevitably led to controversy, and quickly.

  Frowning, Caselli walked away, glancing up at the clearing sky.

  Kanter was talking to Jim Campion as I joined them.

  “I don’t think he has any children. I’m almost positive that he—”

  Campion extended a hand, for a handshake. “I’ll bet you exactly five dollars that he has both a boy and a girl. And, further, I’ll bet that, as of six months ago, both kids were going to Bransten College.”

  Grumbling something, Kanter turned away as his own photographer approached, and immediately behind the Dispatch man came Campion’s photographer. Bunching up now, the radio and TV people were arriving, unloading their cameras and their cables. Watching them, I speculated that they must have received knowledge not given to the press. TV equipment was expensive. It didn’t follow ordinary crimes.

  The black door opened. Dr. Stanton, the medical examiner, nodded good-by to Larsen and was coming up the walkway. Immediately behind Stanton came the police photographer and his assistant, carrying their bulky gear.

  The reporters, now numbering eleven or twelve, gathered in an eager group, waiting for Dr. Stanton to approach. But, smilingly holding up his hand and shaking his head, the slim, elderly doctor said, “Come on, fellows. I’ve got my orders: not a word.”

  “Aw, Doc.”

  “How long’ve they been dead, Doc?”

  “How long’ve you been here?”

  “What’s Captain Larsen doing?”

  But, still shaking his head, although still smiling at us, Dr. Stanton was edging around, on the grass. A couple of radio newsmen walked with him to his car, but their efforts were useless. The doctor liked reporters. But he had his orders. It was common knowledge that Captain Larsen was a perfectly amiable, reasonable Dane—as long as his orders were precisely obeyed.

  “… long now,” Campion was saying.

  I turned to him. “What?”

  “I said, it shouldn’t be long now. Everyone’s come out but the Captain, the Lieutenant and Carruthers.” And, as he spoke, the black door opened once more. Carruthers stepped out and briskly walked toward our waiting group. Immediately the notebooks and the ball-point pens appeared, and the group pressed forward. But Carruthers held up his hand.

  “One reporter from each outfit, that’s all. The Captain’ll see you inside.” And, like a scoutmaster tallying his troup, he passed us down the narrow walkway, motioning most of us forward, holding back the photographers and second-stringers.

  “But what about pictures inside?” someone asked.

  “That’s up to the Captain,” Carruthers answered, herding those approved before him.

  I was the first to reach the black door. Opening it, I passed through a narrow hallway into the apartment’s small living room. Ramsey and Larsen stood against the opposite wall. Quickly glancing around, I inventoried the furnishings: a cocktail table made from a massive cut-down oak dining table, floor cushions on rush matting, and bulky overstuffed furniture, probably bought secondhand. Opening off the living room were two doors, one to the kitchen, one to the bedroom. In the bedroom, through the half-open door, I saw an overturned lamp and a jumble of bedclothing strewn on the floor. I closed my eyes, moistened my lips, and then turned my attention to the two detectives. By this time, my colleagues were crowded around me, all standing. Most of them, I noticed, glanced at the partially opened bedroom door, but only once. All of them stood silently, expectantly looking at Larsen. The Captain waited until Carruthers had come into the room.

  “I won’t beat around the bush,” Larsen said then, looking us over with his pale blue eyes. “I’ve got a lot to do, and so do you, I know. So—” His eyes slid off toward the bedroom door as he sighed.

  “So I’ll give you what we’ve got so far. Or—” The eyes lit with a brief, wry humor. “Or most of what we’ve got, anyhow.”

  Automatically, the newsmen mumbled in protest, a part of the reporter’s ritual.

  Larsen had slipped a notebook from his pocket. He glanced down at the notebook before beginning in the formal phrases of the policeman’s report: “We have a double homicide, as most of you probably know by now. The victims’ names are Roberta Grinnel, age twenty, and David Pastor, age thirty-seven. Miss Grinnel was a student at Bransten College, and—” He paused, faintly frowning as the exclamations began. It was, on the whole, a pleased, anticipatory buzzing. As Campion had predicted, here was a homicide that would sell a few papers and enhance a few reputations, perhaps even negotiate a few raises in salary or city-room status.

  But the buzzing was part of the ritual, and it soon subsided. Larsen waited calmly. Now he continued.

  “David Pastor was a piano player at a nightclub called The Quiet Place, on Broadway. The red Porsche outs
ide, which you probably noticed, belonged to Miss Grinnel. Mr. Pastor, as far as we know, doesn’t—didn’t—have a car. Those are the main points, at least as of right now. If you have any questions, shoot.” He replaced the notebook in his pocket, tilted back his hat, and propped one foot on the coffee table.

  “When were they discovered, Captain?” someone asked.

  “Eight o’clock this morning.” He glanced at his watch. “About two hours ago.”

  “Who discovered them?”

  “Pastor’s cleaning woman.”

  “Is she around?”

  “No. She was in mild shock. A policeman took her home.”

  “What’s her name?”

  He frowned and turned to Lieutenant Ramsey, who also frowned, and looked at Carruthers, across the room. The Detective First Grade, trying not to look smug, consulted his own notebook. Then, clearing his throat, he announced, “Her name is Alice Herms. Address: 1065 Youmans Avenue.”

  “When were they killed?” Campion asked.

  “I can’t answer that very accurately until we get the medical examiner’s report,” Larsen replied. “It was undoubtedly sometime between midnight and, say, six a.m., and a preliminary check indicates that Pastor was working at The Quiet Place until one-thirty A.M. But that’s uncorroborated, of course.”

  “How were they killed?” I asked.

  “Again, I’d rather not say until we have the medical examiner’s full report, and maybe the autopsy findings.”

  “But you must have an idea,” someone complained.

  “That’s true,” Larsen said blandly. “But I’ll have a lot better idea when I have the reports I mentioned. In the meantime—” He moved his head toward the bedroom. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to view the bodies when we’ve finished. You can probably draw your own conclusions.”

  The reaction to this was less than enthusiastic, but we all knew better than to badger Larsen. He only became more stubborn, and in the long run nothing was gained.