The Black Door by Collin Wilcox

certainly, it isn’t my place to speculate on the implications of those events. However, I know you’ll be asking questions about Miss Grinnel and her movements yesterday. So, with the permission of the police, I’ll tell you what I can.”
    He glanced around and touched his small gray mustache. He seemed the storybook dean of students: a ruddy, healthy face, close-cropped gray hair and matching mustache, casual tweeds, a trim figure and a kindly, intelligent manner. He was, I suspected, a considerable person, probably with a quick sense of humor and a patient tolerance for human frailty.
    “First of all, yesterday,” he continued, “Miss Grinnel spent an average student’s day. She attended three classes in the morning, had lunch, and attended two classes in the afternoon, finishing at three P.M. She went to the library at about three-thirty and studied there until approximately five-thirty. She then returned to her room, bathed, and was ready for dinner at six P.M. After dinner, about seven, she went back to the library to finish up some research she was doing on a course in art history. At eight o’clock, she joined three other students in the student editorial offices, where they reviewed some work just completed on the student literary magazine, Forum. The work took perhaps a half hour, after which the four students apparently carried on a bull session until after ten. At about ten-thirty, Roberta Grinnel left the campus in her car.” He opened his hand in a small, controlled gesture of futile regret. “You know the rest. You probably know more about it than I do.” He looked at us, and then nodded slightly. “Now, if there’re any questions, I’ll be glad to try and answer them.”
    Campion was the first.
    “Will you please give us the names of the students present at the, ah, bull session in the editorial office?”
    The reply came readily and smoothly: “I’m sorry, but the police have asked us not to give out that information. However, I’m told that when their investigations are complete, the names will be given to you by the police.”
    “Have the police been the only ones investigating the, ah, bull session?” I asked. “Did you make your own investigation?”
    Johnson answered promptly—perhaps a little too promptly. “No, we’ve done nothing of that kind.”
    “Where are these three students now?” someone asked.
    “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    “Are they here at the campus or downtown at police headquarters?”
    He shook his head. “Sorry.”
    “Do I understand,” Campion asked, phrasing his question with a precise, heavy emphasis, “do I understand that the police are ordering you neither to reveal the names nor the whereabouts of these three students?”
    Johnson thought about it, staring down at the table. Finally, looking up, he said soberly, “As I told you, Bransten has never had to cope with anything as terrible as this, and on such short notice. Our first move, when we heard the news, was to consult our lawyers and determine our legal responsibilities both to the institution and to our students. Our lawyers advised us that our first responsibility was to protect the students from any type of undue harassment or—” he glanced at us with quick apology—“or publicity, until such time as the students’ parents could take full responsibility in the matter, either by their own efforts and presence, or the efforts of their appointed representatives. That’s exactly what we’re trying to do. And, for that reason, I’m not going to give out these names until I have a clear authorization from the parents of the students involved.”
    “Was there any liquor present at this—‘bull session’?” I accented the last two words with deliberate insolence, then felt a brief pang of guilt for putting such a graceless question to such a gentle man.
    “I have no knowledge of any liquor,” he answered. His eyes were dead level. Poker player’s eyes.
    “Is liquor